LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT  OF" 


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COPYRIGHTED,  1896, 
ADDIE    L.    BALLOU. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


ADDIE    L.   BALLOU 


$0  ply  $hitdttttt  and — 

To  those  who  suffer  long  and  wait, 
Who  climb,  and  fall,  and  rise  again, 

Who  bow  before  imperious  fate, 
But  bravely  court  her  happier  vein ; 

To  those  whose  lifted  hands  implore 

Heaven's  guidance  o'er  the  rugged  way ; 

Who  shrink  when  tempests  round  them  roar, 
But  steadfast  wait  the  rising  day ; 

To  humble  hearts  along  life's  shore 

Who  garner  what  the  sea  upheaves, 
I  dedicate  in  broken  lore, 

With  loving  trust,  these  "  Driftwood  "  leaves. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


116857 


PACK 

Hail  to  the  Hero ! 45 

Her  Letter 86 

Home  Memories 18 

I 

In  Memoriam 65-178 

Insomnia 101 

K 

Knights  of  Pythias 107 

L 

L'Envoi .4  54 

Lines           17 

Lines  in  a  Portfolio 150 

Long  Ago  .               209 

Lou's  Christmas  Gift 47 

Love  Never  Sleeps 227 

M 

Major  Pauline  Cushman 27 

Memorial  Poem  No.  i 185 

"    2 189 

"      "    3 i94 

My  Ambition 146 

My  Dream  of  St.  Valentine 155 

My  Heart  Would  Have  Me  Love  You 236 

N 

Not  Alone  with  the  Night 158 

Number  Forty-four 22 

O 

Oh,  Where  are  the  Little  Boys  ? 80 

Open  the  Blind 83 

Our  Baby 78 

Our  Molly 15 


Perdita 75 

Put  off  at  Honolulu  10 


PAGE 

Reception  to  Paul  Vandervoort,  Grand  Commander.  G.  A.  R.         .        211 
Reply  to  a  Letter  Requiring  Extra  Postage 41 


Saint  Margaret 216 

Since  Mother  Died 92 

Sleep  On 71 

Song  of  Victory 63 

Song  Story  for  the  Little  Ones       ...'....  160 

Spirit  of  Love X3 

T 

Take  Courage IOS 

Terra  Australis    ....                56 

The  Battle  of  Ships  on  Mobile  Bay 167 

The  Charge  upon  the  Hill •    .  204 

The  Coming  Man 49 

The  "  Little  Matron's  "  Greeting 3° 

The  Maniac's  Last  Hour 99 

The  Old  and  the  New        .                               221 

The  Tale  of  a  Toad 43 

The  World  must  have  its  Crucified 137 

Thorns  Intertwine  the  Crown  of  Bay 175 

To  Arms !     .                                     62 

To  "  Beeswax  " 134 

To  Winnebago  Lake 231 

Two  Sides 233 

V 

Violets '  9 

W 

Wedding  Anniversary 127 

Welcome  to  Grant     .......'..  114 

Wrhere  do  the  Sea-gulls  Go  ?         .                      151 

Which  do  You  Choose  to  Wear  ? 59 

Wormwood  154 


Your  Praise         ....  79 


DRIFTWOOD. 


AIJDIK    L.     BALLOTJ 


ROOM     62     DONOHOE     BUILDING 
I  170  MARKET  STREET 


<^s<K 


DRIFTWOOD. 


VIOLETS. 

(FOR     F,VANGELINE.) 

THROUGH  the  long  days  of  the  chill  wintry  weather, 
Coyly  their  purple  lips  whisper  and  wait. 

Under  their  leaflets  green,  huddled  together, 
Violets  bloom,  though  the  spring  cometh  late. 

Out  from  the  south-land  with  sun-lighted  tresses, 
Cometh  the  trail  of  the  fairy  of  spring  ; 

Over  their  beds,  with  her  love-warm  caresses, 
Perfumes  of  violet  rise  to  her  wing. 

Out  of  the  chill  of  the  heart's  bleak  December, 
Like  the  bloom  of  the  violet,  tender  and  fair  ; 

Though  severed  by  oceans,  love  still  will  remember, 
And  bless  with  devotion  the  friendship  we  share. 


10  DRIFTWOOD. 


PUT  OFF  AT  HONOLULU. 

I'VE  heard  it  said  in  Frisco  rings — 

It  may  be  false  (it  may  be  true,  though) — 

That  king  Glaus  Spreckles  rules  the  sea, 
From  Frisco  down  to  Honolulu. 

That  steamers  of  the  l<  O  and  O  " 

(Except  one  buy  to  Sydney  through,  tho') 

Will  sell  no  tickets  on  their  line 
To  passengers  for  Honolulu. 

With  "All  aboard  !  "  and  "All  ashore  !  " 
How  shrilly  then  the  whistle  blew,  too  ; 

The  Captain  said  we'd  next  sight  land, 
And  stop  an  hour  at  Honolulu. 

And  so  we  sailed  away,  away  ! 

In  spite  of  all  precautions  due,  though, 
And  much  against  his  will ;   'twas  said 

We'd  land  one  soul  at  Honolulu. 


PUT  OFF  A  7"  HONOL ULU.  1 1 

For  when  the  purser's  round  was  made 

For  tickets  (how  the  Captain  flew,  though), 

For  one  no  ticket  had,  nor  cash, 
To  pay  as  far  as  Honolulu. 

We  thought  the  man  was  but  a  crank. 

Not  so  thought  all  the  merry  crew,  though. 
"  I'll  put  you  off,"  the  Captain  said, 

"  When  we  arrive  at  Honolulu." 

The  fellow  walked  about  the  decks 

As  bold  as  any  Robin  Crusoe, 
Nor  seemed  to  break  his  heart  at  all 

At  being  left  at  Honolulu. 

They  locked  him  up  a  while  below  ; 

Of  course  they  fed  the  fellow,  too,  though  ; 
Twould  hardly  do  to  starve  the  man 

Before  we  came  to  Honolulu. 

And  when  we  reached  that  tropic  isle, 

We  did  as  all  good  people  do,  do — 
We  went  ashore  to  do  the  town, 

And  do  the  king,  at  Honolulu. 


12  DRIFTWOOD. 

Then  down  the  gang-plank  sped  the  man, 

With  "  Thank  ye,  Captain,  and  adieu,  too; 
I'll  go  ashore,  of  course.     Ye  see, 

I  live  right  here  at  Honolulu." 

On  board  steamer  Zealandia,  of  the  "  O  and  O," 
mid-ocean,  June  23d,  1885. 


SPIRIT  OF  LOVE.  13 


SPIRIT  OF  LOVE. 

I  WOKE,  and,  lo  ! 
From  the  deep  chambers  of  my  soft  repose, 

Silent  and  slow, 
Clothed  in  a  mist  of  light,  a  vision  rose. 

My  steadfast  eyes 
Gazed  on  its  splendor  with  new-born  delight ; 

As  summer  skies 
Bedew  the  rose,  so  drank  my  soul  the  light. 

Guest  from  the  skies, 
What  is  thy  mission  with  the  human  heart  ? 

Sure  Paradise 
Claims  priceless  boons,  where  thou  dost  take  a  part 

"  Read  on  my  brow 
The  branded  covenant.     To  all  men,  peace. 

Ever  from  now 
Let  envy,  jealousy,  and  all  sin  cease. 


I4  DRIFTWOOD. 

"In  charity 
Be  to  the  souls  of  men  as  God  to  thee. 

Eternity 
Brings  not  a  recompense  more  gratefully. 

"When  erring  powers 
Bind  to  the  trembling  flesh  the  piercing  thorn, 

Like  trampled  flowers, 
Let  sweeter  incense  on  the  air  be  borne. 

"  Learn  to  forgive 
The  wanton  hand  outstretched  to  grasp  thy  joys. 

This  'tis  to  live, 
Keep  thyself  free  from  all  earth's  gross  alloys." 

Spirit  of  love, 
Speed  swiftly  on  thy  heaven-appointed  way, 

Till  bright  above 
Beams  the  glad  dawning  of  a  better  day. 

R,  P.  Journal,  1872. 


OUR  MOLLIE.  15 


OUR  MOLLIE. 

LARGE  and  dark  as  a  gazelle's 
Are  her  eyes,  with  witching  spells, 
And  her  teeth  are  white  as  pearls, 
And  of  all  the  little  girls 

That  we  know, 
Our  Mollie  is  the  sweetest  ; 

That  is  so. 

Could  you  hear  her  silvery  voice 
Trill  the  music  of  her  choice, 
Could  you  see  her  dimpled  smile 
Ripples  o'er  her  lace  beguile, 
Vou  would  know, 
Our  Mollie  is  the  sweetest ; 
That  is  so. 

Could  you  watch  her  busy  hands, 
Working  out  their  thousand  plans, 


1 6  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  her  feet,  whose  restive  spells 
Fall  like  water  over  shells, 

You  would  know, 
Our  Mollie  is  the  sweetest  ; 

That  is  so. 

Could  you  kiss  her  rosy  lips, 
Which  no  others  can  eclipse, 
You  would  know,  with  great  or  small, 
She's  the  darling  of  them  all  ; 

You  would  know, 
Our  Mollie  is  the  sweetest ; 

That  is  so. 

To  Miss  MOLLIE  KUSSNER, 

Terre  Haute,  Indiana. 
Music  by  L.  KUSSNER. 


LINES.  17 


LINES 

Written  while  waiting  on  some  business  in  the  office  of  U.  S.  MARSHAL 
POOL,  and  where  were  also  MESSRS.  LOVETT,  TEAR,  and  WORTH. 

I'M  many  favors  overdue, 

And  grateful  yet  may  prove  it, 
They  still  may  find  that  proverb  true, 

Who  trust  the  good  and  Lovett. 

May  Mercy's  Tear  direct  the  rule 
Where  modest  Worth  so  still  is, 

For  oft  above  the  placid  Pool, 
Exhale  the  fairest  lilies. 


l8  DRIFTWOOD. 


HOME  MEMORIES.* 

AN  exile,  far  from  home  and  friends, 

I  sought  the  busy  street, 
To  chase  from  memory's  tearful  page, 

Home  recollections  sweet. 
Along  the  crowded  thoroughfare 

My  idle  footsteps  strayed  ; 
A  band  of  strolling  minstrels  passed  ; 

I  listened  as  they  played 


*  MELBOURNE,  Australia,  1885. 

Lonely  and  homesick,  a  stranger,  I  started  out  from  my  hotel,  soon 
after  arriving  at  Melbourne,  for  a  walk,  and  in  a  few  moments  came 
upon  a  band  of  minstrels  who  were  playing  the  familiar  airs  from  the 
Bohemian  Girl — favorite  airs  my  daughter  Evangeline  used  to  sing  so 
well  while  on  the  operatic  stage.  The  music  intensified  my  sadness, 
and  returning  to  my  room,  the  song  suggested  itself  to  me,  and  was  at 
once  written  out.  To  convey  the  desired  impression,  the  music  which 
accompanies  the  respective  words  copied  with  each  verse  should  be 
played  from  the  beginning  of  the  verse,  and  the  two  lines  written  after 
each  interlude  should  be  softly  sung  and  repeated  if  desired. — A.  L.  B. 


HOME  MEMORIES.  19 

Those  dear,  familiar  songs  of  home, 

The  songs  of  other  years, 
When  her  sweet  voice  in  plaintive  tones, 

The  heart  awoke  to  tears, 
With  songs  that  voice  no  more  will  sing 

My  sadness  to  dispel. 
This  tender  strain  the  harp-strings  swept, 

And  swept  my  heart  as  well  : 

[Instrumental  interlude.] 

("  I  also  dreamt,  which  pleased  me  most, 
That  you  loved  me  still  the  same.") 

And  as  the  music  rose  and  fell 

And  softly  died  away, 
My  heart  went  trembling  back  again  ; 

Her  soft  white  fingers  play 
Upon  my  heart,  as  o'er  the  keys 

She  played,  to  comfort  me, 
The  songs  we  loved  in  other  lands, 

Beyond  the  tropic  sea. 
And  ere  the  last  note  died  away 

In  numbers  soft  and  low, 


20  DRIFTWOOD. 

The  vibrant  chords  another  woke 

In  tuneful  overflow  ; 
And  down  the  strings  the  minstrel's  hand 

Swept  lightly  o'er  again, 
As  softly  woke  the  quivering  chords 

In  this  pathetic  strain  : 

[Instrumental  interlude.] 

("'Of  days  that  have  as  happy  been, 
And  you'll  remember  me. ") 

And  yet  again  that  tuneful  hand 

The  chord's  new  echoes  woke, 
Till  overfull  one  slender  thread, 

Of  its  own  sadness  broke  ! 
And  still  above  that  severed  cord 

The  hand  kept  playing  on, 
As  o'er  the  heart's  rent  chords  again 

Life's  rivers  overrun. 
And  yet  again  the  changeful  lyre 

Kept  on  in  numbers  sweet, 
Till  over-sad  with  memory's  thoughts, 

I  hurried  down  the  street. 


HOME  MEMORIES.  21 

While  her  sweet  face  led  on  before 

With  songs  she  used  to  sing, 
Thus  played  the  hand  upon  the  harp 

Above  the  broken  string  : 

[Instrumental  interlude.] 
("  But  memory  is  the  only  friend 

That  grief  can  call  its  own.") 


H2  DRIFTWOOD. 


NUMBER  FORTY-FOUR. 

THE  rain  was  dripping  drearily  from  roof  to  muddy  street, 
With    muffled  tread  the  sentry  kept  his   lonely,    solemn 

beat. 
It  was  midnight.     In  the  hospital  the  lamps  were  burning 

low, 
And  on  the  walls,  fantastic,  flung  their  shadows  to  and 

fro. 

And  every  ward  was  crowded,  with  its  hundred  men  and 

more, 
For  the  winter's  scourge  had  left  them  when  the  troops 

went  on  before  ; 

When  the  fever  and  miasma,  with  their  pestilential  breath, 
Stalked  beside  lagoons  and  bayous  in  the  cerements  of 

death. 

And  a  painful  sense  of  silence  crept  along  the  cheerless 

halls, 
Broken  only  by  the  echoes  where  delirium's  specter  calls, 


NUMBER  FORTY- FOUR.  23 

The  moaning,  and  the  hollow  cough,  or  prayers  "uncon 
scious  said, 

The  footfall  of  the  night-watch  or  the  nurse's  slippered 
tread. 

Sleep's  gentle  hand  in  fitful  rest  elixir's  solace  brought, 
And    on   the    fevered   lids    of  some,   forgetfulness    had 

wrought. 
And  back  in  dreams  the  homesick  boy  through  orchards 

seemed  to  roam, 
And  muttered  oft  to  phantom  shapes  endearing  words  of 

home. 

There  was  dearth  of    woman's    tenderness    and  less  of 

woman's  tears, 
For  women  weep  their  tears  at  home,  while  men  break 

hearts  with  wars, 
Save  now  and  then  in  ministry,  with  home  and  friends 

forgot, 
Her  loyalty  the  patriot  gave  beside  the  sufferer's  cot. 

For  weeks  the  wasting  tooth  of  pain,  relentlessly  as  fate, 
Had  claimed  the  little  drummer,  from  a  loyal  Northern 
state. 


24  DRIFTWOOD. 

The    b(5ys    had   named   him    "Baby,  all    the    way  from 

Illinoy," 
But  the  nurse,   with  woman's  tactics,   called  him  "some 

one's  darling  boy." 

As  his  restless  little  fingers  thinner  grew  from  day  to  day, 
He  would  tell  her  in  his  prattle  of  his  home  so  far  away  ; 
Of  his  pony,  and  his  phaeton,  of  his  colt,  his  skates,  and 

sled. 
"  When  the  Surgeon   gives  me  furlough,    I'll  get  well,  I 

know,''  he  said. 

Then  abrupt  the  story  ended  :    "  Lady,  something  in  your 

eye, 
Tells  me — yes,   I  know  it — that  you  think  I'm  going  to 

die." 
Then  she  made  his   pillow  softer,  stroked  his  little  golden 

head. 
"  But  our  dear  brave  little  soldier  does  not  fear  to  die  ?  " 

she  said. 

"  Only — could  I  see  my  sister — mother — she  is  gone,  you 

know, — 
And  my  father — and  my  brother, — maybe  just  before  I  go. 


NUMBER  FORTY-FOUR.  25 

You  will  kiss  me  for  my  kin-folks — so  the  way  I'm  going 

now, 
Won't  seem  quite  so  strange  and  lonesome, — like  there's 

some  one  near  I  know." 

Then   he  planned  a  distribution    of  his    little  wealth    at 

home, 
And  the  trinkets  in  his  knapsack,  of  a  boy's  well  treasured 

sum. 
"Hardly    know  just    where  I'm   going   to — and   if  you 

wouldn't  mind, 
And  read  a  chapter  in  the  Book,   I   would  think  it  very 

kind." 

Then  he  drew  his  little  Bible  from  beneath  his  pillow  white, 
And  she  held  his  hands,  and  talked  a  while,  then  down 

the  hour  of  night 

She  led  him  with  the  prodigal  whose  wayward  pilgrim  feet, 
Repentant,  in  the  Father's  house  found  welcome  and  re 
treat. 

When  at  last  she  closed  the  chapter,  peace  on  his  brow 
reposed, 

And  to  those  eager  eyes,  afar,  some  glory  seemed  dis 
closed. 


26  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  o'er  the  trembling  purple  lips  she  bent  to  catch  the 

word — 
"And  I — go — to  my — mother,"  was  the  whisper  that  she 

heard. 

Then  she  closed  and  kissed  his  eyelids,    and  a  ring  of 

golden  hair 

From  his  boyish  tresses  severed,  for  a  weeping  sister's  care. 
When  morning  flung  the  sunlight  through  the  window,  on 

the  floor, 
Another  cot  was  empty.      It  was  number  Forty-Four. 


MAJOR  PAULINE  CUSHMAN.  27 


MAJOR  PAULINE  CUSHMAN. 

IN  MEMORIAM. 
[Read  by  the  author  at  the  funeral.] 

CALM,  peaceful  at  last,  like  the  breast  of  the  river, 

When  torrent  and  tempest  and  tumult  are  past, 
When  the  cataract's  thunder  is  silent  forever, 

When  storm-spent  and  placid  and  quiet  at  last, 
WThen  the  rock-fretted  rapids  no  longer  are  sighted, 

Reposeful,  it  reaches  its  furthermost  shore, 
And  the  lamplights  of  evening  in  Starland  are  lighted, 

And  the  travail  and  toil  of  the  day  are  no  more, — 

She  quietly  sleeps,  who  was  tossed  on  life's  ocean, 

On  whose  wild  waves  of  impulse  her  life-bark  was  borne 
O'er  the  red  fields  of  carnage  and  cannons'  commotion 

Through  the  winds  of  adversity  shattered  and  torn, 
With  a  patriot's  fire  on  her  soul's  altar  burning, 

And  a  loyal  heart's  love  that  her  faults  should  atone, 
WTith  a  soul  full  of  tenderness  spent — unreturning  — 

Neglected,  forsaken,  and  dying  alone. 


z&  DRIFTWOOD. 

Oh,  fling  not  reproach  at  the  last,  when  death's  finger 

And  seal  on  her  lips  and  her  heart-throbs  are  set, 
On  one  who  so  loved  with  the  children  to  linger, 

Whose  innocent  prattles  she  could  not  forget. 
Ah  me  !  it  were  better  each  comrade  and  woman 

Should  ask  of  himself — were  his  own  weakness  known, 
He  could  say  to  his  conscience : — ' '  I  am  better  than  human, 

That  he,  being  sinless,  should  cast  the  first  stone  "  ? 


O  loyal  heart,  faithful  heart,  heroine,  soldier  ; 

Breveted  by  Lincoln,  by  Garfield  installed, 
With  the  comrades  in  arms  who  went  shoulder  to  shoulder, 

Imprisoned  and  captive,  but  never  appalled. 
For  country  and  freedom,  and  the  stars  of  "Old  Glory," 

Oh,  let  it  drape  over  her,  silent  and  dead, 
For  what  more  befitting  her  life's  hallowed  story 

Than  forever  its  folds  should  unfurl  o'er  her  head. 


And  we  should  regret,  if  regrets  were  availing, 

That  we  gave  not  the  living  these  tributes  of  ours, 

And  crowned  her  with  laurels,  whatever  her  failing, 
And  strewed  o'er  her  pathway  love's  beautiful  flowers; 


MAJOR  PAULINE  CUSHMAN.  29 

And  perhaps — who  shall  say  that  her  lingering-  spirit 

Speeds  happier  on  in  its  star-fretted  way 
That  at  last,  and  in  death,  we  remembered  her  merit, 

And  bless,  as  we  honor,  her  record  to-day  ? 

Where  softly  she  sleeps  will  the  grave  grasses  quiver, 

When  the  west  wind  sweeps  in  from  far  over  "the  sea  ; 
In  her  dream  she  will  float  on  that  mystical  river 

Where  the  palm  trees  of  Aiden  droop  low  o'er  the  lea, 
And  her  bark  will  cast  anchor  among  the  pale  islands, 

And  the  hands  of  the  angels  are  beckoning  near, 
And  the  morning  light  dawns  o'er  the  crest  of  the  high 
lands, 

And  an  escort  in  armor  to  meet  her  appear. 

And  there  on  the  banks  of  the  river  they  cluster, 

At  the  call  of  the  bugle  they  form  into  line, 
And  a  glorified  army  death  only  could  muster, 

And  a  national  memory  only  enshrine. 
She  has  gone  !  and  among  them  on  history's  pages, 

When  ours  are  forgotten,  our  children  will  tell 
Of  "her  deeds.     And  her  name  will  live  on  through  the  ages. 

Pass  on,  O  freed  spirit,  pass  on,  and  farewell. 


30  DRIFTWOOD. 


THE   "LITTLE  MATRON'S "  GREETING 

TO     THE     BOYS     OF     THE     THIRTY-SECOND      REGIMENT     WISCONSIN 
VOLUNTEERS,     IN    REUNION    AT    RIPON,     WIS. , 
JUNE   27-29,    1893.* 

PLEASE  call  my  name  out,  comrade.      What  is  it  that  you 

say  ? 

I'm  not  upon  the  muster  roll  ?  that  I'm  not  here  to-day  ? 
Where  have  I  been  to  since  the  war?     Why,  I've  been 

'most  everywhere, 
But  I've  always  been  with  you,  boys, — won't  someone 

answer  "  here  "  ? 

You  may  have  quite  forgotten,   boys,   while  journeying 

down  the  years, 
Full  many  a  scene  which  in  my  heart  some  memory  still 

reveres, 

*  I  was  appointed  Matron  and  Nurse  of  the  32d.  Wis.  Vols.  Inf.  by 
Surgeon  General  Wolcott,  of  Milwaukee,  and  was  with  them  in  the  field 
until  overtaken  by  sickness,  after  a  very  severe  campaign  during  a 
protracted  epidemic. 


THE  "LITTLE  MATRON'S"  GREETING.  31 

But  I  never  shall  forget  you  till  my  days  on  earth  are 

reckoned, 

And  I  still  would  be  at  roll-call  in  the  dear  old  Thirty- 
Second. 

I  was  with  you  up  at  Oshkosh,  when  first  you  went  on 
drill, 

And  I  nursed  you  in  the  barracks  when  you  swallowed 
your  first  pill, 

And  when  below  at  Memphis,  when  with  mud  half  over 
flowed, 

You  came  in  from  the  Pigeon  roost,  that  execrable  road. 

And  I  can  well  remember,  without  trying  very  hard, 
How  we  gathered  in  the  sick  ones  at  the  Memphis  Navy 

Yard  ; 
You  were  grimed  and  sick  with  fever,  and  so  many  were 

laid  low, 
Who  were  fresh  in  manhood's  vigor  but  a  month  or  two 

ago. 

And  my  heart  was  sick  with  pity,  tho'  you  always  thought 

it  light, 
And  my  tears  were  always  coming,  tho'  I  wept  them  out 

of  sight, 


52  DKIFTWOOD* 

And  I  felt  the  pain  that  racked  you  as  I  bent  above  your 

cot, 
And  I  tried  my  best  to  cheer  you,  that  the  pain  might  be 

forgot. 

For  I  knew  the  homesick  longing  for  the  loved  ones  far 

away 
Was  more  wasting  than  the  fever,  and  I  tried  to  make 

you  gay  ; 
And  I  let  you  call  me  "  mother,"  "  sweetheart,"  anything 

you  pleased, 
Till  your  sinking  courage  rallied  and  the  homesick  was 

appeased. 

But  the  hardest  thing  about  it  was,  when  everything  was 

done, 

To  see  the  flickering  life  go  out  of  some  dear  mother's  son, 
And  they  said  it  wasn't  quite  so  hard  to  die  with  woman's 

care, 
And  it  gave  them  satisfaction  to  have  me  with  them  there. 

But  you  couldn't  know  the  hunger  that  was  in  my  heart 

the  while, 
For  altho'  my  heart  was  breaking,  for  your  sakes  I'd  sing 

and  smile. 


THE  "LITTLE  MATRON'S"  GREETING.  33 

Did  you  know  in  Southern  prisons  that  I  had  a  soldier  lad? 
And  I  missed  my  babies'  kisses,  and  I  couldn't  help  be  sad. 

But  I  seemed  to  hear  entreating  from  your  mothers  at 

their  prayers, 
"  Father,  let  some  angel  woman  give  my  suffering  boy 

her  care  ; " 

And  so,  boys,  I  stayed  beside  you  and  I  did  my  level  best, 
Tho'  I  never  packed  a  knapsack — was  a  soldier  with  the 

rest. 

And  I've  often  thought  it  singular  that  neither  near  or  far 

Is  a  monument  erected  to  the  women  of  the  war, 

Tho'  the  country  needed  women  just  as  much  as  boys  in 

blue, 
And  I  rather  think  they  helped  you  bring   "old  glory" 

safely  through. 

I  don't  count  much  on  honors,  tho/  that  come  when  one 

is  dead ; 

Better  that  consideration  that  will  help  you  get  ahead  ; 
Aftermath  suits  some  conditions  when  you've  plenty  and 

at  ease, 
But  the  toiler  in  the  treadmill  can't  waste  time  upon  his 

knees. 


34  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  my  pulses  throb  with  thinking  of  the  half  I  couldn't 
tell, 

When  we  camped  out  there  at  Chelsea,  you  will  all  re 
member  well  ; 

There  was  room  enough  and  plenty,  and  the  tents  were 
new  and  neat, 

And  the  mess  had  pork  and  beans  enough  and  baker's 
bread  to  eat. 

And  the  boys  all  looked  so  handsome  on  parade  and  all 

in  line, 
And  with  only  slight  exceptions  everything  out  there  was 

fine, 
And  the  boys  behaved  so  lovely  (we  had  none  but  lovely 

men), 
That  the  guard-house  held  a  captive,  for  a  change,  but 

now  and  then. 

And  the  boys  policed  the  district,  it  was  something  nice 

to  note, 
Tho'  we  entertained  the  stranger, — bovine,   swine,  and 

friendly  goat, — 

Who  when  growing  too  familiar,  without  jury  or  defense, 
Went  the  way  of  such  transgressors,  filled  our  plates  at 

their  expense. 


THE  "LITTLE  MATRON'S"  GREETING.  35 

And  the  hospital  extended  till  we  took  and  cared  for  all, 
Tho'  sometimes  they  numbered  many  who  came  up  at 

surgeon's  call  ; 
And  there's  some  who  will  remember  every  bed  was  clean 

and  snug, 
And  the  drink  was  so  refreshing  from  the  Matron's    "big 

brown  jug." 

To  the  blessed  Sanitary  Uncle  Sam  owed  many  thanks 
For  the  thousands  that  recruited  from  the  ever  thinning 

ranks, 
For  their  glorious  ministrations,  freely  given    on   every 

hand, 
Helped  the  boys  preserve  the  Union  and  bring  freedom  to 

the  land. 

How  I  foraged  from  a  neighbor  for  the  sick,  you  may 

have  heard, 
And  gobbled  up  his  strawberries,  and  he  couldn't  say  a 

word, 
With   the  picket-guard  on   duty  ;  and  while   we   picked 

away 
We  sang  "  'way  down  in  Dixie,"  and  remarked  we'd  come 

to  stay. 


36  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  the  contrabrands,  how  thick  they  were,  Sam,  Caro 
line,  and  Kate, 

And  Dave,  Octave,  and  Charlie  ;  and  the  melancholy  fate 
That  befel  our  little  Walker,  who  was  everybody's  pet, 
In  his  soldier  clothes,  by  far  too  large ;  I  seem  to  see  him 
yet. 

And  I  wonder  if  the  chaplain  will  recall  it,  when  I  say 

I  have  not  forgot  the  pudding  that  he  made  for  his  birth 
day  ; 

Tho'  he  watched  and  boiled  and  punched  it  from  morn 
till  afternoon 

It  came  out  like  soup  with  raisins,  and  we  ate  it  with  a 
spoon. 

I  remember  I  was  frightened  once  when  ordered  to  report, 
In  a  peremptory  manner,  and  the  Colonel  was  the  court  ; 
And  I  wondered  what  delinquence,  dereliction,  or  what 

not 
Caused  my  summons  so  abruptly  as  I  hurried  to  the  spot. 

Well  !  the  guard  an  escort  waiting  held  so  innocent  a 
pair — 

They  were  women,  and  protested  they  had  nothing  any 
where 


THE  "LITTLE  MATRON'S"  GREETING.  37 

That  was  contraband,  and  plied  me  with  persuasions  that 

were  bland, 
And  to  save  the  guard  the  trouble  I  just  took  them  into 

hand. 

And  they  begged,    caressed,   entreated,   that  I  wouldn't 

"  make  'em  strip," 
But  I  knew  my  little  business   and  I  wouldn't  let  them 

slip  ; 
So  I  took   their  big   horse-pistols  they  were  smuggling 

through  the  line, 
And  every  one  was  loaded,  and  they  carried  eight  or  nine. 

And  when  the  summer  ended  and  the  frost  was  every 
where 

We  went  to  church  in  numbers,  tho'  scarce  to  say  a  prayer; 

Tho'  the  church  of  General  Forrest  for  another  use  was 
meant, 

The  sick  men  in  the  basement  seemed  in  every  way  con 
tent. 

And  we  served  the  Lord  in  earnest,  at  least  I  thought  so 

then, 
By  caring  for  the  soldiers,  who  of  slaves   were   making 

men  ; 


38  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  I  slept  up  in  the  pulpit,  where   I  really  thought  it 

worse 
To  give  sanction  to  a  rebel  than  protect  an  army  nurse. 

But  I'dbetter  not  detain  you,  there's  so  many  to  be  heard, 
But  I  thought  I'd  fly  to  pieces  if  I  couldn't  say  a  word  ; 
Tho'  it's  sort  of  second-handed,  and  it  seems  a  little  hard, 
I  will  send  my  silent  double,  who  will  represent  my  card. 

Tho'  I'm  with  you,  boys,  in  spirit,  ghosts  like  mine  don't 

walk,  they  say, 
But  I'd  give  ten  years  of  penance  to  be   with  you  all 

to-day, 
Just  to  see  your  dear  old  faces,  just  to  catch  your  honest 

smiles, 
To  be  really  there  among  you  I  would  walk  a  hundred 

miles. 

So  my  corporate  can't  be  with  you — perhaps  it's  just  as 

well, 

For  what  might  happen  otherwise,  might  not  be  best  to  tell ; 
Tho'   I  love   the   girls   right  royally,    the   girls   you  left 

behind, 
They  might  misconstrue  the  impulse,  if  not  generously 

inclined. 


THE  "LITTLE  MATRON'S"  GREETING.  39 

Yet  I  can't  quite  reconcile  it  you  should  meet  without 
me  there, 

And  I've  set  my  head  to  thinking  how  to  take  you  un 
aware  ; 

I  myself  am  no  magician,  if  some  magic  could  be  found — 

Stay  !  perhaps  I  might  by  proxy  greet  and  hug  you  all 
around. 

And  remember,  when  you  see  it,  just  the  trifle  that  I  send  * 
Just  to  show  the  Thirty-Second  has  in  me  a  loyal  friend, 
That  the  hand  that  wrought  the  token  would  its  ministry 

bestow 
Just  as  freely  to  a  soldier  as  in  war  times  long  ago. 

And  there's  one  thing  pretty  certain,  when  we're  called 

in  grand  review, 

At  that  grand  eternal  muster,  I  shall  not  be  far  from  you. 
If  there's  one  among  you,  comrades,  who  is  doubtful  of 

his  fate, 
I'll  persuade  the  good  Saint  Peter  just  to  pass  him  through 

the  gate. 

*  The  trifle  sent  was  a  cream  satin  banner  upon  which  I  had  painted 
in  oil  colors  the  "  Little  Matron's  "  portrait,  full  size.  Our  Chaplain  is 
now  the  Right  Rev.  Bishop  Samuel  Fallows  of  the  Diocese  of  Illinois. 


40  DRIFTWOOD. 

True,    I    know    you've   hardly   missed   me,   but   'twould 

gratify  my  mind 
If  you'd  give  just  one  hurrah,  boys,  for  the  girl  now  left 

behind ; 

And  I'd  prize  the  silken  token  as  a  keepsake,  just  to  say, 
"See,  my  boys  did  not  forget  me — here's  the  badge  they 

wore  to-day. " 

And  if  any  of  you,  comrades,    should  be  drifted   out  my 
way, 

I'd  suggest  you'd  better  call  a  halt,  and  pass  the  time  of 
day  ; 

I  am  loth  to  leave  you,  comrades,  and  my  heart  is  break 
ing  quite  ; 

I'll  be  with  you  next  reunion  ;  heaven   bless  you  all — 
good-night. 

Your  "  Little  Matron,"  in  loyal  affection, 

ADDIE  L.   BALLOU. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA. 


RE  PL  Y70  A  LET7ER  REQ  U I  RING  EXTRA  POST  A  GE.     4 1 


REPLY  TO  A  LETTER  REQUIRING  EXTRA  POSTAGE, 

FROM  A  PUNNING  CORRESPONDENT. 

AT  taking-  hints 

You  make  no  stints, 
Nor  prove  to  compact  fickle  ; 

Which,  willing  done, 

With  spicy  pun, 
Deserves  the  extra  nickel.  * 

Professor  Peet, 

I'm  yours  to  treat, 
But  make  me  this  confession  : 

A  kindly  lick 

Of  fate  might  stick 
You  fast  to  your  profession. 

*  Five  cents  postage  at  that  time. 


42  DRIFTWOOD. 

I  send  you  cheer, 
And  change  for  beer, 

Much  pleasure  be  afforded 
Forgive,  forget, 
That  dreadful  threat ; 

Return  and  be  rewarded. 


THE  TAi£  OF  A   TOAD.  43 


THE  TAIL  OF  A  TOAD. 

AN    IMPROMPTU. 

I  HAVE  an  old  aunt  from  the  city, 
She's  a  sort  of  a  genius  and  crank  ; 

She  tries  to  be  funny  and  witty, 

But  her  jokes  seem  to  me  rather  rank. 

My  aunt  had  a  pet  that  she  tended, 
She  tethered  him  out  by  a  string. 

I  hope  she  will  not  be  offended, 
But  I  thought  it  a  horrible  thing. 

My  aunt  gave  him  flies  for  his  diet 

When  her  day's  work  of  painting  was  done, 

But  the  flies  feed  on  him,  and  he's  quiet, 
And  his  toes  are  turned  up  to  the  sun. 


44  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  that  is  the  end  of  my  story, 

For  his  bones  bleach  out  there  in  the  road. 
It's  no  fable,  like  ' '  Old  Mother  Morey," 

But  my  aunt  and  her  little  horned  toad. 

For  Ethel,  by  the  said  aunt. 
REDLANDS,  CAL  , 
June,  1891. 


HAIL   TO  THE  HERO. 


HAIL  TO  THE  HERO  !  * 

ALL  hail  to  the  hero  whose  coming  we  wait, 

When  the  ship  shall  sail  in  from  the  turbulent  sea ; 

When  harbor-locked  safe  by  our  own  Golden  Gate, 
Oh,  warm  be  our  welcome  in  honor  of  thee  ! 

In  all  the  far  lands  through  these  pilgrimage  years, 
All  nations  have  gloried  to  honor  their  guest  ; 

But  hearts  never  leaped  with  such  pride  and  glad  tears, 
Nor  hands  with  such  welcome  his  never  have  pressed. 

For  our  hero  is  ours,  and  we  cannot  forget 
The  arm  that  was  strongest  on  perilous  field, 

When  the  sky  of  our  nation  with  crimson  was  set, 
And  carnage  and  death  left  their  stain  on  our  shield. 

Then  ring  out  such  welcome,  with  cannon  and  bell, 

As  never  a  hero  returning  has  known  ; 
And  spangle  the  air  with  the  breeze-lifting  swell 

Of  the  flag  he  defended,  for  his  land  and  our  own. 
*  Arrival  of  Grant  at  San  Francisco,  Sept.  15,  1879. 


45  DRIFTWOOD. 

Then  welcome,  thrice  welcome  !  our  veteran  chief, 

We  are  all  of  us  loyal  in  welcome  to  thee — 
To  the  soldier  whose  sword  brought  the  bondmen  relief, 

Our  ruler,  when  peace  spread  her  wing  o'er  the  free. 

Then  thunder,  ye  guns,  and  ring  loudly,  each  bell, 
And,  music,  give  voice  o'er  the  restless  sea  foam, 

And  stars  shimmer  down  from  your  banners  and  tell 
How  proudly  we  welcome  our  conqueror  home. 


LOU'S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT.  47 


LOU'S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

TWAS  the  night  before  Christmas, 

And  poor  little  Lou, 
For  the  want  of  a  stocking 

Hung  up  her  old  shoe  ; 
It  was  worn  out  and  ragged, 

It  was  rusty  and  old, 
It  let  out  the  pink  toes, 

And  it  let  in  the  cold. 

"I'll  just  play  I  am  sleeping," 

The  little  one  said, 
"And  when  Santa  Claus  comes 

And  looks  into  my  bed, 
And  don't  see  me  stir, 

He'll  fill  up  my  shoe 
With  all  the  nice  things 

For  my  mamma  and  Lou." 


3  DRIFTWOOD. 

11  Merry  Christmas  to  mamma  !  " 

As  jumping-  from  bed 
To  the  shoe  by  the  chimney, 

The  little  one  sped. 
"  Oh,  Santa  !   what  made  you  ? 

Just  see  what  he's  done  ! 
He's  filled  up  my  shoe 

Full  of  snow,  just  for  fun. 

"  I  think  he  was  naughty, 

A  little  bit  too, 
For,  mamma,  he  didn't 

Leave  nothing  for  you. 
But  never  mind,  mamma  ! 

I'll  kiss  you — don't  cry  ! 
'Spect  he  couldn't  bring 

What  my  ma  couldn't  buy." 

NEW  ORLEANS,  LA.,  1872. 


THE  COMING  MAN. 


THE  COMING  MAN. 

A    REPLY   TO     "SANS    SOUCI." 

"SANS  Souci,"  pray,  what  did  you  mean, 

When  you  laid  out  that  terrible  plan 
Of  the  "witching,  bewitchingly  sweet," 

And  the  traps  that  they  set  for  their  man  ? 
Your  "girl  of  the  period,"  mister, 

The  one  that's  best  fitted  your  mood, 
Would  take  her  own  chances  at  wooing, 

She  never  would  wait  to  be  wooed. 

That  the  world  needs  be  "reformed  " 

And  governed  by   "better  rules," 
Is  a  truth  that  may  well  be  applied, 

Since  its  rulers  are  knaves  or  fools. 
Conventions  and  Congresses  now 

Are  scarce  but  a  babel  of  noise 
And  squabbles  and  party  strife, 

Led  on  by  the  tipsy  b'hoys. 


50  DRIFTWOOD. 

Don't  wonder  they  "dream  of  place 

And  power,"  and   "  a  better  morn," 
And  as  to  the  fireside  virtues, 

Well,  to-day  there  is  little  to  scorn. 
And  as  for  the  noisy  forum, 

They've  not  very  far  to  rush, 
And  your  grapevine's  purple  lustre, 

Is  naught  but  a  nightshade  bush. 

If  our  women  were  all  Cornelias, 

And  the  men  of  the  period  wed, 
Their  children  would  be  but  monkeys, 

If  they  "  aped  "  from  the  parent  head. 
Our  old-fashioned  men,  oh,  where  are  they  ? 

They  are  gone  with  the  woodbine,  to  grass, 
And  the  men  of  to-day  haven't  mettle 

Enough  for  a  compound  of  brass. 

Lucretias  to-day  are  the  women 

Who  to  keep  up  appearance,  you  know, 

Must  dress,  paint,  and  flirt  to  be  charming; 
Not  a  sensible  thing  should  they  know. 

The  one  who  should  dare  to  know  other 


THE  COMING  MAN.  51 

Than  what  you  might  teach  to  a  goose, 
Is  a  creature  of  Amazon  habits, 

And  a  target  for  small  men's  abuse. 

I'll  tell  you,    "Sans  Souci,"  what  I  think, 

These  men  have  quite  envious  grown, 
That  a  woman  should  be  independent, 

Since  this  world  has  so  long  been  their  own. 
The  coin  she  so  merrily  "jingles," 

Her  rights  by  the  earning  have  gained, 
She's  not  forced  to  wed  for  a  keeping 

Or  honors  she  never  attained. 

Alas  for  these  wronged  little  creatures, 

These  poor  little  masculine  elves, 
They  measure  the  ''strong-minded  women  " 

By  what  is  left  out  of  themselves. 
It  is  just  as  well  that  he  comes  not, 

This  "coming  man,"  'tis  no  use, 
Since  hearts  may  be  won  by  love  only, 

And  not  by  the  croak  of  a  goose. 

LOUISVILLE,  KY.,  1871. 


52  DRIFTWOOD. 


DEAD  IN  HIS  BED. 

ONLY  a  man  dead  in  his  bed  ;  that  is  all. 
Stark,  stiff,  and  rigid,  white  face  to  the  wall. 

Came  out  of  yesterday,  somewhere,  to  here. 
Well,  no  ;  don't  think  he'd  friends  anywheres  near. 

Wanted  employment,  that's  what  he  said  ; 
No  work  to  give  him, — next  thing  he's  dead. 

What  did  he  die  of,  sir  ?     Can  any  one  tell  ? 

A  fit  did  they  think  it  was  ?     Last  night  he  was  well. 

Heart  disease?     Maybe.      What  was  his  name  ? 
Don't  know  ;  didn't  register,  sir,  when  he  came. 

Laud'num,  they  said  it  was,  there  on  the  stand. 
No,  stranger  ;  don't  reckon  he  held  a  fair  hand. 

Suicide  ?     Yes,  that's  what  the  Coroner  said  ; 
Scooped  out  was  what  put  the  thing  in  his  head. 


DEAD  IN  HIS  BED.  53 

Money  ?     Guess  not,  sir.     Why,  he  hadn't  enough 
To  pay  for  this  hole  in  the  sod,  of  the  stuff. 

Friends,  did  you  ask  ?     Oh,  yes  !  sometime  or  other  ; 
Reckon,  of  course,  the  boy  once  had  a  mother. 

Rather  rough  on  him,  pard  ;  but  where's  it  to  end, 
When   you're  panned  out  of  cash,  and  can't  count  on  a 

friend  ? 

Down  to  the  calaboose — that's  where  they  took  him  ; 
Good  enough  place  when  a  man's  money's  forsook  him. 

Fun'ral  ?     Just  you  see  that  express  at  the  corners  ! 
County  don't  pay  for  no  hearse,  nor  no  mourners. 

Well,  stranger,  you've  got  me  !     Can  pray,  if  you  will; 
Rather  late  in  the  day,  when  a  man's  dead  and  still. 

Strikes  me  it  don't  count,  to  this,  under  my  spade  ; 
And  as  for  the  rest  of  him — stranger,  that's  played. 

No  offence,  sir  ;  beg  pardon.     But  strikes  me  as  fair, 
And  a  pretty  sure  wey  to  get  answer  to  prayer, 

Better  give  a  poor  devil  a  lift  while  he's  here, 
Than  wait  till  he's  passed  in  his  checks  over  there. 

Oregon  Statesman*  SALEM,  Oct.  I,  1874. 


54  DRIFTWOOD. 


L'ENVOI. 

DOWN  Memory's  shadowy  aisle  to-night 

There  sweeps  the  train  of  bygone  years  ; 
As  stars  with  shimmering  train  of  light, 
An  army  of  the  heaven  appears  ; 
While  night  dews  shed  their  crystal  tears, 
Each  orient  space 
Some  long-loved  face 
Un  vails  to  bless  my  lingering  sight. 

Down  by  each  time-familiar  lane 

My  mother  walks,  as  in  those  days 
When  we  were  boys.     Ah  !  would  again 
Our  eyes  could  meet  her  tender  gaze 
As  they  looked  then  their  love  and  praise. 
The  soft  caress, 
Her  finger's  press, 
Was  solace  for  all  grief  or  pain. 

Down  where  the  silence  is  so  deep — 
My  thoughts  give  echo  ere  I  speak — 


U EN  VOL  55 

They  laid  you  when  you  fell  asleep, 
With  death's  pale  lilies  on  your  cheek. 
You,  best  beloved,  who  were  so  meek, 
So  placid  seemed, 
As  if  you  dreamed 
Of  secrets  that  the  angels  keep. 

Down  from  your  now  abiding-place 

Is  there  no  passageway  to  ours  ? 
No  window,  where  your  sainted  face 
May  look  from  out  your  spirit's  bowers, 
To  cheer  us  on  life's  lonely  hours  ? 
Is  there  no  word 
That  may  be  heard, 
Peace-giving  in  its  thrilling  powers  ? 

Down  Time's  tempestuous  coast  at  last, 
When  life's  frail  tent  for  me  is  furled, 
When  night  my  day  shall  overcast, 

When  wrecked  and  out  of  being  hurled, 
Will  your  sweet  eyes,  by  love  impearled, 
In  welcome  wait 
At  Aiden's  gate, 

And  find  me  room  in  your  blest  world? 
Evening  Post,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  1877. 


56  DRIFTWOOD. 


TERRA  AUSTRALIA 
(CENTENNIAL  CANTATA.  ) 

HAIL  !  hail !  and  welcome,  all  ye  lands, 

Far  reaching  over  many  seas  ! 
Hail  !  fleet-winged  ships  from  every  strand, 

That  trail  your  pennons  on  the  breeze  ! 
Bring  hither  from  your  fruits  of  toil, 

Your  choicest  industries  and  arts, 
Invoke  the  genius  of  your  skill, 

Bring  bounteous  from  your  treasure  marts. 

CHORUS. 

HAIL  !  hail !  and  welcome  from  every  fair  land, 
From  east  and  from  west,  to  our  land  of  the  free, 

We  give  you  the  clasp  of  fraternity's  hand  ; 
All  nations  are  one  in  the  world's  jubilee. 

Your  world  is  mighty,  the  sea  is  wide, 
The  prophet  Time  for  you  has  wrought 


TERRA  AUSTRALIS.  57 

Empires  strong,  for  hearts  of  pride, 

Wise  in  the  lore  by  sages  taught. 
From  breast  of  the  old  the  new  world  springs. 

Flushed  is  her  heart  with  veins  of  gold. 
Forging  metals,  and  toiler  sings, 

We  shall  be  great  ere  we  are  old. 

Backward  only  a  hundred  years, 

Silently  under  the  southern  cross, 
Waste  was  our  land  as  futile  tears, 

And  gold  was  idle,  and  time  was  loss. 
Speeds  now  the  engine's  polished  steel, 

Where  but  the  trail  the  savage  pressed  ; 
And  ships  come  in,  with  sail  and  wheel  ; 

Lightning  and  steam  keep  pace  abreast. 

Cities  arise,  mankind  to  bless, 

Over  the  waste  of  the  years  now  gone  ; 
And  church,  and  school,  and  printing-press 

Herald  the  light  of  a  better  dawn. 
The  children's  hearts  are  light  with  song, 

And  peace  and  plenty  and  joy  abound, 
The  sinews  that  gird  the  state  are  strong, 

And  toil  is  monarch  the  new  world  round. 


58  DRIFTWOOD. 

Our  herded  hills  and  vales  combine, 

And  gardens  honied  sweet  with  bees, 
And  vintages  o'errim  with  wine, 

And  golden  sands  between  our  seas, 
To  give  you  welcome,  far  and  wide 

Welcome  !  Excelsior,  Gloria  ! 
Be  honored  still  with  gracious  pride, 

Country  and  queen,  Victoria. 

CHORUS. 
MELBOURNE,  VICTORIA,  1889, 


WHICH  DO   YOU  CHOOSE   7V   WEAR  ?  59 


WHICH    DO   YOU   CHOOSE  TO   WEAR? 

WHICH  do  you  choose  to  wear,  dear  girl, 
The  rose  or  the  laurel?     For  both  are  fair. 

The  rose  is  for  love,  the  laurel  fame  ; 

Whichever  shall  crown  your  shining  hair? 

Which  shall  the  soul  of  your  young  life  claim  ? 
Which  do  you  choose  to  wear,  dear  girl  ? 

Which  do  you  choose  to  wear,  dear  girl  ? 

Sweet  with  the  breath  of  love  is  the  rose  ; 
Under  the  rose  is  hid  the  thorn  ; 

Queen  of  the  hedge  it  lowly  grows  : 
On  the  glacial  heights  is  the  laurel  born. 

Which  do  you  choose  to  wear,  dear  girl  ? 

Warm  is  the  breath  of  the  rose,  dear  girl  ; 

Thorny  the  stem  on  which  it  grows. 
Daisies  above  her  grave  may  bloom, 

Over  the  laurel  the  cold  wind  blows, 
Marble  the  walls  of  her  final  tomb. 

Which  do  you  choose  to  wear,   dear  girl  ? 


60  DRIFTWOOD. 

Wear  as  you  choose  to  wear,   dear  girl  ; 

May  they  both  entwine  for  you  alway, 
Laurel  and  rose,  for  love  and  fame  ; 

Above  your  brows  the  evergreen  bay, 
And  love  be  your  heart's  sweet  oriflamme, 

Is  the  prayer  of  my  heart  for  you,  dear  girl. 

To  Miss  Lena  Roucicault,  daughter  of  Dion  Boucicault. 
Steamer  Zealanclia,  mid-ocean,  June  21,  1885. 


ACROSTIC  ON  A  BLOTTER.  61 


ACROSTIC  ON  A  BLOTTER, 

CHRISTMAS. 

SAYS  I  to  myself,  'Tis  the  last  of  the  year, 

And  I  wish  you  much  joy  of  the  past. 
Merry  Christmas  be  with  you  and  all  its  good  cheer 

(Thank  goodness  it's  with  us  at  last). 

Have  a  care  for  the  new  year,  invoke  the  good  saints 

Our  fortunes  and  joys  to  increase. 
Right  the  wrongs  of  the  millions,  unfetter  restraints 

So  let  us  have  plenty  and  peace. 

(On  Cover.) 

As  snow-flakes  cover  what  autumn  sears, 
So  I  blot  out  the  inky  tears. 


62  DRIFTWOOD. 


TO  ARMS  ! 

OH  !  sad  were  the  tidings  that  reached  us  to-day. 

Each  flag  at  its  masthead  was  fluttering  gay, 

But  hearts  hushed  their  beatings,  and  cheeks  paler  grew, 

As  the  terrible  story  from  lip  to  lip  flew  : 

"  Colonel  Ellsworth  is  fallen,  the  pride  of  the  braves, 

The  gallant  young  chief  of  the  bold  '  Fire  Zouaves'." 

A  shadow  of  gloom  o'er  the  busy  town  passed, 
And  the  star-begemmed  tricolors  trailed  at  half-mast. 
Long  the  nation  will  mourn  that  her  hero  should  die 
By  a  murderous  hand,  when  no  battle  was  nigh, 
As  fell  Colonel  Ellsworth,  the  pride  of  the  braves, 
The  gallant  young  chief  of  the  bold   "  Fire  Zouaves." 

His  blood  calls  for  vengeance,  and  thousands  to-day 

Are  waiting  the  summons  in  battle  array, 

To  strike  for  his  downfall  with  vigorous  hand, 

And  the  flag  that  waves  over  our  glorious  land, 

To  avenge  Colonel  Ellsworth,  the  pride  of  the  braves, 

The  gallant  young  chief  of  the  bold  "  Fire  Zouaves." 

• 
Chilton  Republican,  MENASHA,  Wis.,  May  25,  1861. 


SOJVG  OF  VICTORY.  63 


SONG  OF  VICTORY. 

WE'VE  touched  the  apex  of  our  hopes  ! 

No  longer  woman  pleading  kneels, 
To  ask  her  heaven-appointed  rights 

Of  man,  in  tearful  scorned  appeals, 
For  backward  now  those  doors  have  swung, 

That  never  opened  but  to  men. 
Her  voice,  once  heard  in  Congress  halls, 

Shall  wake  its  corridors  again. 

Be  patient,  O  ye  pauper  poor, 

And  weary  workmen  at  your  desk, 
Ye  cringing  menials  in  the  dust, 

Your  wrongs  are  soon  to  be  redressed. 
Ye  servers  on  time-honored  powers, 

A  nobler  power  shall  sway  than  kings  ; 
No  longer  man  shall  despot  rule, 

When  woman's  standard  upward  flings. 


64  DRIFTWOOD. 

Wait,  gloriously,  ye  crucified 

Of  womankind,  for  come  it  must, 
The  day  when  you  no  more  shall  be 

A  victim  to  man's  selfish  lust. 
Up,  then  !  to  action,  women,  men, 

Nor  longer  wait  in  sluggish  fear, 
The  right  by  vigilance  shall  win, 

And  crowns  of  equal  justice  bear. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  during  the  Woman's  Suffrage  campaign,  Jan.,  1872, 


IN  ME  MORI  AM,  6$ 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

(MEMORIAL  DAY,  SEVEN  PINES  CIRCLE, 

LADIES  OF  THE  G.  A.  R. ) 

(An  Impromptu.) 

OH  !  my  sisters,  while  memory  lingers 

With  the  heroes  who  honored  the  blue, 
While  twining  with  tenderest  fingers, 

The  blooms  o'er  their  graves  to  bestrew, 
In  the  web  of  their  love  wreathing  beauty, 

Inwrought  for  the  deeds  of  the  brave, 
Who  followed  the  stern  call  of  duty, 

And  sleep  in  a  patriot's  grave. 

Forget  not  the  tireless  devotion, 

Of  mother  and  sister  and  wife, 
Whose  love  through  the  deadly  commotion, 

Sustained  those  arrayed  in  the  strife. 


66  DRIFTWOOD. 

Their  names  are  unwritten  in  story, 

The  battles  they  fought  are  unsung, 
No  history  heralds  their  glory, 

No  wreath  on  their  monument's  hung. 

Their  hearts  were  a-hungered  with  waiting 

The  scourge  of  the  war  to  pass  by  ; 
With  vigils  that  knew  no  abating, 

And  a  faith  that  was  royal  and  high, 
With  tears,  while  their  babes  closer  pressing, 

They  bade  them  go  honor  the  shield, 
Till  the  wrongs  of  the  nation  redressing, 

With  victory  covered  the  field. 


With  a  love  that  was  all  unrepining, 

And  a  loyalty  true  as  the  stars, 
To  the  despot  of  fate  all  resigning, 

Bereft  by  the  saddest  of  wars  ; 
And  the  ruin  and  storms  and  confusion, 

The  whirlwind  of  terrible  shocks, 
Have  crimsoned  life's  peaceful  illusion, 

And  silvered  the  sheen  of  their  locks. 


IN  MEMO  RI AM.  67 

And  those  who  lie  silently  sleeping, 

Those  sisters  beloved  of  ours, 
In  faith  to  their  loyalty  keeping, 

We'll  garland  with  memory's  flowers. 
And  out  from  the  heart  of  their  petals, 

Shall  gleam  the  white  star  of  our  love, 
As  the  crucible  holding  the  metals 

Reflects  the  pale  light  from  above. 
SAN  FRANCISCO,  May  23,  1892. 


68  DRIFTWOOD. 


DADA'S   MAN. 
(GRANDBABY'S   PRATTLE.  ) 

No  !  grandma,  I  don't  fink  I  can 
Be  your  boy,  'cause  I's  a  man, 
My  ma  says,  an'  guess  she  knows  ; 
Next  year  goin'  to  wear  man's  clo'es. 

I  works  hard  mos'  every  day, 
Nen  sometimes  I  has  to  play. 
Sister  ain't  so  big,  like  Roy  ; 
Guess  she  wish  she  be  a  boy. 

No  !  I  ain't  not  'fraid  a  bit ; 
Des  hoi's  on  an'  rides  old  Kit, 
Right  up  steep  to  dada's  mine, 
'Way  up  by  the  sugar-pine. 

Mussent  touch  the  poison-noak, 
'Skeeters  they  don't  like  the  smoke ; 
Lizard  crawls  up  by  eh  trough, 
Hit  'em,  nen  his  tail  drop  off. 


DAD  AS  MAN.  69 

I  puts  ore-dirt  in  eh  dump, 
Rolls  it  down  to  hear  it  bump. 
'Raster  grinds  it  awful  slow, 
Nen  I  makes  more  water  go. 

I  goes  fru  eh  garden  gate, 
'Cos  I  has  to  irrigate  - 
Picks  up  acorns  for  eh  pigs, 
An'  pine  nuts  ;  but  /eats  eh  figs. 

Yeller  jackets  sting  me  so 
I  fall  down.      Nen  my  ma  fro 
Water  on  me  quick's  she  can, 
'N  I  swell  up  mos'  big's  a  man. 

Mooley  cow  went  to  eh  shop, 
'Cos  I  couldn't  make  her  stop. 
Bonnie,  he  des  bark  en  run. 
Oh  !  we  des  had  lots  of  fun. 

Dada  hold  me  pretty  tight, 
En  we  ride  en  ride  all  night 
In  eh  steam-car  to  see  you. 
Street  cars  they  des  awful  too. 


yo  DRIFTWOOD. 

Mamma  says  must  hug  you  so, 
'Cos  she  says  she  couldn't  go. 
'Course  Roy  '11  love  you  much's  he  can, 
But  he  must  be  dada's  man. 

Xmas,  1891. 


SLEEP  ON. 


SLEEP  ON. 

SLEEP  on,  dear  promise  of  Love's  dream, 
I  would  not  wake  thy  dreamless  sleep  ; 

Thy  deathless  spirit  journeyed  on, 
And  I,  alone,  must  wait  and  weep. 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on  ! 

Sleep  on,  sweet  angel  of  my  life, 
No  mortal  cares  disturb  thy  rest ; 

Night's  gentle  zephyrs  stir  among 
The  daisies  growing  o'er  thy  breast 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on  ! 

Sleep  on,  in  silent  slumber  sleep  ; 

I  listen,  but  your  voice  is  still, 
And  yet  I  hear  love's  vocal  sound 

In  silence,  when  I  listen  well. 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on  ! 


DRIFTWOOD. 
Sleep  on,  I  would  not  bid  thee  wake 

To  fill  the  weak  cup  of  my  life. 
You  were  my  all  ;  and  art  thou  less 
My  angel  now,  that  wert  my  wife? 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on  ! 

Sleep  on  ;  as  pales  the  morning  star, 
So  passed  away  thy  life  and  breath, 

To  light  my  night  in  life's  decline. 

Death  is  not  sleep  ;  yours  is  not  death. 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on  ! 


A  UTOGKAPII  LINES.  7 3 


AUTOGRAPH  LINES. 
(J.  E.  C.) 

WHAT  shall  I  ask,  to  your  life  a  boon  ? 
Not  that  it  be  like  an  endless  June  ; 
Though  of  the  rose  'tis  the  natal  morn, 
Still  nurtured  beneath  is  the  hidden  thorn. 

Violets  grow  from  the  quickened  earth, 
Meek,  like  forgiveness  and  modest  worth ; 
And  these  are  May's,  but  an  April's  tears 
Have  sent  her  the  floral  crown  she  wears. 

September  is  freighted  with  golden  grain  ; 
Her  sunlight  and  even  her  harvest  rain 
Ripen  the  germs  of  the  buds  of  spring, 
And  a  halo  of  use  over  beauty  fling. 

Thus  may  your  life  like  the  autumn  be, 
Erom  blasts  of  winter  and  storms  quite  free, 
But  enough  of  sunshine,  enough  of  tears, 
To  span  with  the  rainbow  your  arch  of  years. 

CHAGRIN  FALLS,  OHIO,  Dec,  1866. 


DRIFTWOOD. 


A  MI  QUIERIDO  ! 

DARLING  !  each  day  with  its  resplendent  wing, 
Infolds  you  closer  to  my  yearning  breast, 

As  tender  pinions  o'er  the  loved  one  cling, 
To  clasp  the  new  fledged  birdling  to  its  nest. 

When  you  are  near  me,  does  the  great  black  swell, 
That  wrecked  the  past,  its  raging  tumult  cease? 

Some  tranquil  whisper  tells  me  all  is  well, 
And  floods  my  soul  in  an  impassioned  peace. 

So  long  my  heart  had  starved,  and  loved  in  vain, 
I  could  not  see  the  sunlight,  for  my  tears  ; 

To  trust  and  love  you,  1  forget  my  pain, 

And  kiss  your  hands  above  the  broken  years. 

Too  much  I  trust  the  honor  of  your  thought, 

To  let  my  lips  betray  my  heart's  whole  quest ; 
For,  if  you  love  me,  or  you  love  me  not, 

Yours  will  divine,  and  give  to  mine  the  test. 
MELBOURNE,  VICTORIA,  Oct.,  1885. 


PERDITA.  75 


PERDITA. 

ONE  night,  a  hurrying  angel,  filled  with  pity, 
Heard  a  low  infant's  wail  within  the  city  ; 
She  paused,  her  warm  heart  in  her  bosom  throbbing ; 
Beside  a  door-stone  knelt  a  mother,  sobbing. 

"Oh,  pitying  angel  !  let  me  for  my  sin  so  sorrow. 
Hence  from  my  breast,  my  babe, — if  but  to-morrow 
Shall  love  and  shelter  her  ! — while,  loveless  and  alone, 
My  broken  heart  can  for  such  sin  atone." 

The  angel  stooped  and,  filled  with  pity,  kissed  her. 
"Go,  sin  no  more, — though  frail,  thou  art  my  sister." 
The  door  swung  inward,  and  far  streamed  the  light ; 
The  babe  with  other  angels  nestled  safe  that  night. 
TERRE  HAUTE,  INDIANA,  Oct.,  1889. 


76  DRIFTWOOD. 


BE  RECONCILED. 

(A    RESPONSE    TO    RICHARD    REALF,     POET    AND    JOURNALIST.) 

MAY  the  wing  of  the  peace-angel  hover, 
Thy  tempest-tossed  bosom  above, 

For  why  should  the  breath  of  the  lover, 
Sigh  hot  o'er  the  altar  of  love  ? 

Twere  better  its  ^Etna  to  smother, 

E'er  reaching  the  noon  of  its  height, 

Than  gulf  the  v/recked  life  of  another, 
In  the  furious  sea  of  its  blight. 

For  love  is  not  love,  if  unmated  ; 

It  survives  but  in  oneness  alone  ; 
And  to  death  must  that  bosom  be  fated, 

That  is  always  bereft  of  its  own. 
SAN  FRANCISCO,  July  3,  1878. 


A  FRAGMENT.  77 


A  FRAGMENT. 

I  DO  not  mind  that  the  good-night  words 

With  lingering  fondness  were  once  unspoken,. 

That  the  tender  touch  of  a  good-night  kiss 

Gave  not  to  my  lips  the  accustomed  token. 

I  do  not  mind  all  the  weary  hours, 

Which  the  lonely  vigils  deprived  of  sleeping, 
Though  a  throbbing  head  and  a  beating  heart 

The  sentinel  watch  to  the  night  are  keeping. 

I  only  grieve  that  a  heart  so  loved 

Should  prize  so  lightly  love's  priceless  treasure 
As  to  spill  the  wine  with  a  careless  hand, 

And  break  with  neglect  its  crystal  measure. 

PORTLAND,  OREGON,  November,  1878. 
The  City  Argus,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


78  DRIFTWOOD. 


OUR  BABY. 
( To  music  by  Felix  Schelling,  Philadelphia,  Pa.) 

BEAUTIFUL  humming-bird,  sipping  the  flowers, 

Robbing  their  cups  of  their  delicate  sweets  ; 

Dear  little  golden-haired  birdling  of  ours, 

Pattering  soft  with  her  little  bare  feet 

Dear  little  mocking-bird,  all  the  long  day 

Saying  the  baby  words  scarce  understood, 

Catching  the  flecks  of  the  sunlight  at  play — 

Ah  !  she  would  catch  the  great  sun  if  she  could. 

Cuddles  her  tired  head  cosy  for  sleep, 

Watching  the  moon  and  the  stars  in  the  sky  ; 
Softly  the  dimpled  arms  round  my  neck  creep, 

Lisping  to  "mamma"  her  "  lullaby-by." 

Sleep,  little  innocent,  little  "Bo-peep!" 

Come  never  over  her  shadow,  but  sheen  ; 

Angels  protect  her,  awake  or  asleep, 

Golden-haired  slumberer,  Evangeline. 


YOUR  PRAISE. 


79 


YOUR  PRAISE. 

THAT  night  when  the  crowd  applauded  much, 

When  the  house  was  filled  and  I  did  my  best, 
I  eagerly  watched  if  I  could  but  touch 

Your  heart  in  response  with  all  the  rest  ; 
You  paid  me  the  homage  of  your  praise, 

In  a  reverent  touch  to  my  lifted  brow, 
Your  proud  eyes  lent  their  approving  rays, 

But  you  said  me  good-night  with  a  formal  bow. 

Last  night  when  the  crowd  was  far  the  less, 

And  a  wearisome  pain  convulsed  my  frame, 
Though  never  a  one  could  my  agony  guess, 

Your  eye  flung  o'er  me  its  tender  flame. 
Because  I  faltered,  you  praised  the  more  ; 

Like  a  child  you  drew  me  to  your  warm  breast, 
As  you  never  had  held  me  there  before, 

And  your  good-night  kiss  to  my  lips  you  pressed. 
August,  1878. 


8o  DRIFTWOOD. 


OH,  WHERE  ARE  THE  LITTLE  BOYS? 

THE  house  is  so  empty,  so  lonely  and  still  ; 

The  embers  are  fitfully  dying  ; 
The  wintry  tears  fall  on  my  window-sill, 
And  my  heart  keeps  sobbing  and  sighing 
For  the  little  boys  that  were  lent  to  me, 
In  the  long  ago,  by  the  inland  sea, 
Where  birds,  and  blossoms,  and  winds  were  free. 

For  back  again  were  my  little  boys 

Last  night,  in  reality  seeming ; 
And  all  the  old  pride  and  motherly  joys 
Were  mine  through  the  bliss  of  dreaming 
Of  the  little  boys  with  their  bare  brown  feet, 
With  their  milk-white  teeth  and  breaths  more  sweet 
Than  the  clover  blooms  where  the  honey-bees  meet. 


OH,   WHERE  ARE  THE  LITTLE  BOYS?  8k 

Two  tangled  webs  of  the  softest  brown, 

Like  bronze  into  amber  molten  ; 
And  one  with  ringlets  of  flaxen  down, 
Reflecting  the  sunlight  golden. 

And  sweeter  than  song  of  any  bird 
That  ever  the  woodland  echoes  stirred, 
Was  the  music  of  even  their  slightest  word. 

One  slipped  life's  sandals  whose  baby  song 

First  lisped  in  the  voice  of  an  angel  ; 
Since  my  arms  enclasped  him  it  seems  so  long, 
Twin-born  and  my  life's  evangel. 
No  shadow  of  earth  his  purity  mars, 
Who  waits  by  the  gate  whose  golden  bars 
Exceed  the  limit  of  countless  stars. 

What  would  I  give  if  their  broken  toys 

Were  about  me,  all  order  defying, 
And  the  silken  heads  of  my  little  boys 
Were  asleep  on  their  pillows  lying  ? 

For  the  perfumed  kiss  of  their  baby  lips  ? 

My  breast  so  yearns  for  their  finger-tips 

To  fling  o'er  life's  shadows  love's  sweet  eclipse. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

They  are  all  far  away,  my  boys  that  are  men  ; 

None  ever  were  nobler  or  better ; 
They  bless  me  through  each  happy  stroke  of  the  pen, 
Through  each  "  dear  little  mother's"  letter. 
Why  should  I  grieve  if  a  fairer  face, 
With  its  youthful  glow  and  a  sweeter  grace, 
In  the  heart  of  my  boys  holds  dearer  place  ? 

Perhaps  my  boys  will  come  back  again, 

And  my  heart  be  at  rest  from  its  roaming, 

When  the  Httle  boys  of  my  boys  that  are  men, 

Shall  be  stars  to  my  day  in  its  gloaming. 

For  who  knows  but  ere  my  heart  grows  cold, 
As  my  head  grows  silvered  above  the  gold, 
Their  baby  boys  shall  my  arms  enfold  ? 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL.,  April,  1879. 


OPEN  THE  BLIND. 


OPEN  THE  BLIND. 

SERENADE. 

THE  moonbeams  lie  white  on  the  rose-bush  and  lawn, 
The  night  is  fast  passing,  it  soon  will  be  dawn. 
Oh  !  wake  from  your  pillow,  bid  slumber  be  gone, 
Throw  open  your  casement,  O  beautiful  maid ! 
The  sky's  bending  o'er  you,  while  stars,  gleaming  bright, 
Like  eyes  of  the  angels  that  watch  you  by  night, 
Are  calling  you,  love  ;  and  the  moon's  silver  light 
A  shimmering  glance  on  your  window  has  laid. 

Open  the  blind,  love,  open  the  blind  ; 

Open  the  blind,  love  ;  tender  and  kind 

Blows  the  soft  breath  of  the  summer-warm  wind  ; 

Star  eyes  are  watching,  love,  open  the  blind. 

Oh,  lady,  awake  !  do  the  stars  vainly  wait? 
The  moon  will  not  tarry,  she  answers  'tis  late ; 
And  long  has  the  night-birdling  crooned  to  his  mate ; 
The  river  is  kissing  the  lips  of  its  shore, 


84  DRIFTWOOD. 

Imploring,  in  ripples  that  sparkle  and  dance, 
My  star-eyed  to  fling  them  her  rivaling  glance. 
Then,  lady,  awake  !   let  thy  presence  enhance 

The  beauty  of  earth,  and  the  heaven  bending  o'er. 

Open  the  blind,  love,  open  the  blind ; 

Open  the  blind,  love  ;  tender  and  kind 

Blows  the  soft  breath  of  the  summer-warm  wind; 

Star  eyes  are  watching,  love,  open  the  blind. 

Then  open  your  window,  for  tender  and  true, 
As  the  heart  of  the  rose  that  is  kissed  by  the  dew, 
The  heart  that  is  calling  is  beating  for  you, 

Is  calling  you,  love,  to  awake  from  your  sleep. 
As  pure  is  her  heart  as  the  snow  on  the  breast 
Of  the  snowiest  mount,  on  the  loftiest  crest. 
In  sleep  or  awake  may  she  ever  be  blest. 

Thy  vigils  above  her,  oh  !  peace,  angels,  keep  ! 

Open  the  blind,  love,  open  the  blind  ; 

Open  the  blind,  love  ;  tender  and  kind 

Blows  the  soft  breath  of  the  summer-warm  wind; 

Star  eyes  are  watching,  love,  open  the  blind. 

PORTLAND,  OREGON,  August,  1878. 


AUTOGRAPH  LINES. 


AUTOGRAPH  LINES. 
(ALBUM,  MISS  GRACE  E .) 

As  happy  as  your  dreaming, 
As  fair  as  summer  seeming, 
With  blessed  joy  be  teeming, 

The  future  of  your  years. 
And  when  your  heart  is  mated, 
May  love  be  ne'er  abated, 
To  joy,  your  wifehood  fated, 

And  know  no  vale  of  tears. 


TURLOCK,  CALIFORNIA,  Dec.  1884. 


S6  DRIFTWOOD. 


HER  LETTER. 
MY  DARLING  : 

THREE  days  have  lifted  their  glory  above  you, 
Since  I  answered  you,  Yes,  dear  heart,  1  love  you. 

Three  days,  and  they  should  have  been  weeks  instead, 
By  the  busy  thoughts  that  have  throbbed  in  this  head. 

Three  crooked  days,  with  their  worse  and  better, 
And  "I  love  you  "  can  only  be  spoken  by  letter. 

And  pray,  dear,  what  must  you  think  of  the  sphinx 
Who  sketches  her  cupids  with  pen-points  and  inks  ? 

For,  darling,    "  I  love  you  "  falls  short  of  its  bliss, 
When  letter  seals  steal  the  sweet  seal  of  a  kiss. 

And,  sweetheart,  "I  love  you*'  is  sweetest  when  told 
By  every  sweet  art  which  love's  secrets  unfold. 

Then  how  can  I  lift  to  your  lips  love's  full  bowl, 
And  in  word  crystals  flash  the  full  light  of  the  soul  ? 


HER  LETTER.  87 

And,  darling,  what  if  I  love  you  as  deep 

As  the  limitless  depths  where  the  thunders  sleep  ? 

If  my  heart  like  the  steel  in  its  sheath  were  as  set, 
And  you  were  the  gem-studded  hilt's  silver  fret? 

What  if  you  were  the  sunlight's  meridian  glow, 
That  could  melt  into  rivers  my  life's  ice  and  snow  ? 

What  then  ?     If  the  child  were  so  loyally  true, 
Would  a  constant  "  I  love  you  "  be  echoed  by  you? 

And  true  as  the  stars  that  watch  nightly  above  her, 
Would  you  be  to  such  love  an  unfaltering  lover  ? 

Would  you  open  your  bosom  the  doveling  to  nest, 
And  say  to  the  weary  heart,  Come  here  and  rest  ? 

Would  you  sometime  grow  weary  of  too  much  caressing, 
And  prize  not  the  love  that  lives  only  in  blessing? 

Would  you  not,  as  a  dreamer  who  shakes  off  his  dreams, 
Fling  her  from  your  life  with  day's  ruddier  gleams  ? 

Oh  J  tell  me,  I'm  eagerly  waiting  to  know, 

How  you'll  shelter  my  birdling  with  pinions  of  snow. 


88  DRIFTWOOD. 

Impatient  to  break  this  bewildering  spell, — 

If  you  love  me,  my  darling,  write  quickly  and  tell. 

For  darling,  I  love  you,  I  love  you — what  then  ? 
May  angels  protect  you  ;  God  bless  you  ;  amen  ! 

SACRAMENTO,  CAL.,  May,  1874. 


COLUMBIA,  89 


COLUMBIA. 

LOVELIEST  stream  among  the  rivers, 

In  the  northland's  lakelets  born, 
Where  the  glacial  mountain  shivers 

Through  the  wintry  summer  morn  ; 
Where  no  foot  of  man  or  maiden 

Other  than  the  duskier-hued, 
Treads  the  wilderness,  o'erladen 

With  its  wildest  beast  or  brood. 

Hurrying  on,  nor  ever  staying — 

Why  so  swiftly  through  thy  Dalles? 
Coyly,  with  the  shadows  playing, 

Madly,  where  the  cascade  falls  ; 
Placid  now,  but  yonder  flirting 

With  the  sunset,  crimson-dipped, 
Where  the  hills  the  west  is  skirting, 

Passion-hued  in  blushes  tipped. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

Through  the  rocky  canons  falling, 

Shimmering,  laughing,  to  the  sea, 
To  the  stars  coquetting,  calling 

"Fling  your  mantle  over  me  ;  " 
To  the  snow  mount,    "  Do  you  miss  me 

From  your  summer  melting  height  ?  " 
To  the  moon,    "  Oh,  come  and  kiss  me, 

Sparkle  on  my  breast  to-night." 


On  forever,  wondrous  river, 

Will  you  never  pause  nor  rest  ? 
Will  you  cease  from  hurrying,  never, 

Till  upon  the  ocean's  breast  ? 
Vainly  strive  the  shores  to  hold  you, 

Stay,  O  river,  you  are  lost 
Once  the  Ocean's  arms  enfold  you, 

Where  the  tides  are  tempest-tossed. 

But  her  sandal  ribbons  tinkle 
Into  loops  and  girdling  sheen, 

Broadening  in  her  skirts  to"  twinkle 
On  the  fir's  reflected  green. 


COLUMBIA. 

"Let  me  go  to  meet  my  lover, 
Golden  treasures  wreathe  my  way," 

Thus  she  sings,  while  sails  above  her 
Bear  her  golden  sweets  away. 

And  the  passion-spuming  ocean, 

With  his  lips  all  foaming  white, 
Rushes  to  her  with  commotion, 

"  You  shall  be  my  bride  to-night," 
Kneels  upon  the  shore  to  lave  her, 

Frantic  leaps  the  stranding  bar. 
"  She  is  mine,  no  power  can  save  her  1 

Shrieks  o'er  sail  and  plunging  spar. 

THE  DALLES,  Sept.  4, 1878. 


92  DRltTWOOD. 


SINCE   MOTHER    DIED. 

OH,  memories  sweet  of  my  childhood's  home, 
Swiftly  ye  glide  o'er  the  waves  of  time  ; 
Again  I  sit  with  the  loved  ones  there, 
And  mother  is  still  in  the  dear  old  chair ; 
Yet  sad  is  the  music  of  memory's  chime 
Since  mother  died. 
Oh,  mother  ! 


My  father  loved  in  those  golden  days 
To  lift  the  wee  ones  upon  his  knee  ; 

But  his  smile  went  out,  leaving  lines  of  care; 
The  silvery  threads  have  crept  into  his  hair. 
Oh,  bitterly  sad  is  that  home  to  me 
Since  mother  died. 
Oh,  mother  ! 


SINCE  MOTHER  DIED.  93 

And  where,  oh,  where  are  the  cherished  ones  now  ? 
Four  of  our  number  have  joined  her  there. 
One  leads  his  braves  in  the  cause  of  right, 
One  comforts  the  dear  old  man  to-night ; 
Her  babe,  he  has  grown  to  a  man  of  care 
Since  mother  died. 
Oh,  mother  ! 

One  pale  and  delicate  all  his  youth, 

Now  prospers  well  in  his  happy  home  ; 
And  one — she  erred,  but  we  love  her  yet, 
And  the  days  of  her  innocence  never  forget, 
For  we  know  how  often  the  sorrows  come 
Since  mother  died. 
Oh,  mother ! 

And  I — each  hearth  hath  its  wandering  one — 
Ah,  me  !  are  the  home-joys  forever  flown  ? 
Often  I  sigh  for  a  kindred's  love, 
And  would  fly  to  that  ark  like  a  fugitive  dove ; 
Yet  why  do  I  murmur — alone,  alone, 
Since  mother  died  ? 
Oh,  mother  ! 


94  DRIFTWOOD. 

For  oft  when  the  shadows  of  twilight  fling 
The  breath  of  the  evening  upon  my  brow, 
Or  the  midnight  hour,  with  its  wild  unrest, 
With  throbbing  brow  to  the  pillow  pressed, 
I  have  felt  the  thrill  of  that  voice  so  low 
Since  mother  died. 
Oh,  mother  ! 

O  blessed  light  from  the  spirit's  love, 
Hovering  over  to  guide  and  cheer, 

How  ye  banish  the  terrors  of  life  or  death  ; 
Ah  !  they  come  again  with  the  night  wind's  breath. 
Welcome,  dear  forms  that  are  ever  near 
Since  mother  died. 
Oh,  mother ! 

Banner  Of  Light,  FOND  DU  LAC.,  Wis.,  1864. 


AFTER   THE  BA  TTLE. 


95 


AFTER   THE   BATTLE. 

ONE,  the  darling  of  a  household,  a  widow's  only  son, 
Was  gathered  with  the  wounded  when  the  battlefield  was 

won  ; 
And  a  comrade  bending  o'er  him   smoothed  his  couch 

with  manly  care, 
While  the  moon  looked  down  in  pity,  glinting  through 

his  raven  hair. 

In  his  hand,  so  firm  in  battle,  trembling  lay  a  gilded  case, 
And  the  dying  soldier's  teardrops  fell  upon    a   pictured 

face. 

Gory  was  the  golden  ringlet  he  so  lovingly  caressed, 
Till  the  dying  hand,    grown  weaker,  let  it  fall  upon  his 

breast. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,  Will,  I'm  dying ;  I  shall  soon  be  out  of 

pain  ; 
And  the  home  and  friends  so  dearly  loved  I  shall  never 

see  again  ; 


96  DRIFTWOOD. 

And   I    ask    it    as  a  comrade,  if  you  should  outlive  the 

strife, 
That  you  bear  my  last  short  message  to  my  mother  and 

my  wife. 

"Tell   my  mother  to  repress  her  tears,  for  the  love  she 

bears  her  son  ; 
There  have  many  noble  sons  been  slain  that  victory  might 

be  won  ; 
And  although  my  life  is  going,  and  I  know  'tis  sweet  to 

live, 
What  I  now  regret  most  deeply  is,  I  have  but  one  to  give. 

"Tell  my  sister  I  would  give  her  some  memento  of  my 

care — 
Oh,  I  know  how  they  will  miss  me  from  the  old  familiar 

chair — 
Tell  her  to  be  brave,  and  tender  of  our  mother's  failing 

years  ; 
They  will  have  to  face  the  battle  in  life's  field  of  bitter 

tears. 

"Like  the  lave,  she's  pure  and  noble,  she  has  ever  been 
my  pride, 


AFTER   THE  BA  TTLE.  97 

Than  that  I  should  fall  in  battle,  she  herself  had  sooner 

died. 
Tell  her,  all  the  love  she  bore  me  she  must  give  my  fragile 

flower, 
And  the  good  all-seeing  Father  will  reward  life's  darkest 

hour. 

"You  will  go  to  that  dear  cottage  where  the  prairie  roses 

twine, 
You  will  meet  my  own  dear  loved  ones  in  the  home  that 

once  was  mine, 
And  my  Mary— you  will  know  her  by  this  tress  of  golden 

hair, 
And  her  cheek  of  lily  whiteness,  she  was  always  frail  and 

fair — 

"Give  her  these — this   case    and  ringlet,    I  shall   never 

want  them  more  ; 
I  have  never  sunk  in  slumber  but  I've  kissed  them  o'er 

and  o'er. 
She  will  not  have  long  to  mourn  me  ;   we  shall  meet  full 

soon,  I  know  ; 
She  cannot  face  the  bitter  storms  in  this  cold  world  of 

woe. 

7 


98  DRIFTWOOD. 

"Raise  me — Will,   I'm  growing1  fainter  ;  place  your  arm 

beneath  my  head — " 
One  upward  glance,  one  sigh,  a  struggle,  and  the  soldier's 

soul  had  fled ; 
And  a  light  came  o'er  his  features  blending  in  a  heavenly 

smile, 
As  if  angel  forms  were  waiting  in  the  moonlight  all  the 

while. 
Milwaukee  Sentinel,  June  11,  1862. 


THE  MANIAC'S  LAST  HOUR. 


99 


THE  MANIAC'S  LAST  HOUR. 

DEAD  !  dead  !  and  away  from  me  ? 

My   darling  cannot  be  dead  ! 
Let  me  tear  up  this  marble  slab, 

And  see  if  it  cover  her  head. 

Dead  !  and  is  God  dead  too, 

That  he  heard  not  the  cry  of  my  heart, 
To  spare  the  dear  life  of  my  love, 

And  to  let  not  her  spirit  depart  ? 

Dead  !  and  the  sun  is  blood 

To  my  life,  and  the  moon  is  out, 

The  stars  are  like  serpent's  eyes, 
That  look  on  a  heart  of  doubt. 

Mad  !  who  said  I  was  mad  ? 

How  dare  they  to  pinion  me  so  ? 
Do  they  think  to  divide  us  by  death  ? 

No,  I'll  sunder  the  earth  but  I'll  go. 


TOO  DRIFTWOOD. 

Fiends,  back  again  to  your  den, 

And  bring  me  the  soul  that  has  fled, 

Or  tear  out  my  own  heart,    and  fling 
In  the  waves  of  the  sea  of  the  dead. 

Ha  !  ha  !  she  is  coming  at  last ; 

She  beckons  me  over  the  reef. 
Just  one  leap  into  the  dark  ; 

Down,  walls,  and  give  me  relief. 

Ha  !  So  !  now  the  crimson  tide 

From  my  veins  in  a  torrent  starts. 

Oh,  where  are  the  bolts  and  bars 

That  can  bind  up  such  broken  hearts  ? 

I  am  coming,  my  love,  to  you, 

On  a  'wildered  and  tempest-tossed  wave  ; 
One  moment — how  dark  it  grows  ! 

Ah  !  dying  ? — God  pity  and  save. 


INSOMNIA.  10 1 


INSOMNIA. 

0  PILGRIM  Sleep  !  O  wanton  god  ! 

Why  leave  so  long  my  lids  unkissed, 
While  Night,  with  silver  sandal  shod, 
Lifts  her  gray  pinions  in  the  east  ? 

1  saw  thee  linger  by  my  door, 

And  turn  its  latch,  and  sweetly  smile, 
When,  lo  !  a  shadowy  ghost  before, 
Crept  noiseless  in  and  sat  awhile. 


102  DRIFTWOOD. 


"AND  A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD  THEM. 

I  SAT  by  the  fireside  dreaming 

Of  hopes  that  had  fled  with  the  past  ; 

Like  the  roses  of  youth  they  had  perished, 
And  left  me  a  skeptic  at  last. 

And  I  said,  as  I  gazed  on  the  embers 
That  burned  with  a  beautiful  glow, 

Till  the  flames  in  their  upward  leaping, 
Left  only  the  ashes  below  : 

As  such  is  the  life  of  a  mortal, 

A  torch  for  a  moment  of  light, 

To  die  like  my  beautiful  embers, 

'Mid  the  shades  of  a  rayless  night. 

Once  mine,  like  the  life  that  was  glowing 
But  a  half  hour  ago  in  the  grate, 

Was  warm  with  the  love-light  within  me, 
And  I  knew  not  the  meaning  of  fate. 


AND  A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD   THEM:''      103 

Till  now,  with  it  constantly  breaking, 
My  heart  has  grown  bitter  and  chill, 

And  philanthropy  feeds  the  affections, 
And  makes  me  a  slave  to  my  will. 

And  thus,  like  the  glow  of  the  embers, 

My  life  will  go  out  by  and  by, 
And  I,  like  the  ashes,  forgotten, 

Shall  crumble  to  dust  where  I  lie. 

When  down  through  the  deepening  twilight, 

And  soft  on  the  evening  air, 
A  voice  that  was  near  me  whispered  : 

"  Of  such  have  the  angels  care. 

"As  crushed  is  the  vintage  by  pressure 
That  yieldeth  the  choicest  wine, 

So  hearts  that  have  greater  missions 
Are  crushed  by  the  hand  divine." 

Then  the  air  seemed  filled  with  music, 
And  the  clouds  were  drifted  aside, 

And  I  saw  with  the  throng  that  entered, 
My  beautiful  boy  that  died. 


104  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  looking  at  me  so  fondly, 

With  his  eyes  of  the  sky's  own  blue, 
He  said,  "  If  God  cares  for  the  sparrow, 

Don't  you  think  he  will  care  for  you  ?" 

Then  I  prayed  to  the  Father,  Forgive  me. 

Take  not  from  my  life  its  care, 
But  strength  to  my  faint  heart  give  me, 

Life's  burdens  the  better  to  bear. 

JR.  P.  Journal,  MANKATO,  MINNESOTA,  1867. 


TAKE  COURAGE.  105 


TAKE  COURAGE. 

I'VE  found  in  journeying  up  and  down, 
Good  yields,  where'er  you  make  it  ; 

And  who  would  wear  a  victor's  crown, 
Must  pave  the  way  to  take  it. 

While  some  would  weakly  wait  for  fate 

To  set  in  fortune's  favor, 
I've  found  the  wheel  of  fate  decides 

For  him  whose  stroke  is  braver. 

When  round  and  round  the  ceaseless  waves 

Of  opposition  take  you, 
When  one  by  one,  like  summer  leaves, 

Your  summer  friends  forsake  you  ; 

When  doubtful  hopes,  like  leaden  skies, 

Hang  heavily  above  you, 
When  treasure,  golden  phantom,  flies, 

And  leaves  no  heart  to  love  you  ; 


Io6  DRIFTWOOD. 

Don't  be  afraid,  but  lift  your  head. 

Let  not  despair  assail  you, 
With  earnest  will  and  steady  tread, 

Your  purpose  cannot  fail  you. 

This  world's  not  all  a  wanton  waste, 
But  interspersed  with  mountains, 

And  he  who  will  may  climb  their  crest, 
And  taste  their  cooling  fountains. 

With  ruddy  health  and  honest  heart, 
Just  flout  the  grim  dissenter, 

When  motive  power  the  muscles  start, 
Success  ne'er  failed  a  venture. 

And  Fortune's  wheel  continuous  makes 

Her  varied  revolutions, 
And  never  stays  her  well-poised  stakes 

At  half-formed  resolutions. 

Be  brave  your  heart,  your  standard  high, 

And  never  dare  forsake  it ; 
Your  motto  this,  whatever  you  try, 

"I'll  find  a  way,  or  make  it." 


OF  PYTHIAS.  107 


KNIGHTS    OF  PYTHIAS. 
(ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  ) 

ANOTHER  year  Time's  sifting  sand 

Has  gathered  with  his  treasures  ; 
O'er  all  the  land,  with  bounteous  hand, 

Swell  nature's  well-poised  measures. 
And  in  the  virgin  lap  of  spring, 

Of  all  the  seasons  sweetest, 
Her  buds  she  flings,  and  with  them  brings 

Hope's  promise  of  completeness. 

Again  the  ruddy  cheek  of  May, 

With  carnate  blush  diffusing, 
With  blossoms  gay,  trails  in  the  day, 

While  memory's  page  perusing, 
Turns  back  to  anniversaries  fled, 

That  fleck  the  gone  forever  ; 
Whose  fragrance  shed,  above,  tho'  dead, 

Shall  be  forgotten  never. 


Io8  DRIFTWOOD. 

For  genial  seasons  still  will  bring 

Their  changes,  sun  o'er  shadow  ; 
New  birds  will  sing  with  each  new  spring, 

New  grasses  deck  the  meadow  ; 
And  nature's  story  freshly  told, 

Her  goblet  still  renewing, 
New  threads  of  gold  among  the  old 

She  weaves  with  each  reviewing. 

So,  smiling  over  winter's  crest, 

She  breaks  his  shivering  lances, 
And  on  the  breast  she  loves  the  best, 

She  flings  her  amorous  glances  ; 
Till  heaving  with  responsive  dews, 

Lo  !  earth  with  heart  a-quiver, 
With  passion  hues,  the  virgin  wooes, 

To  recompense  the  giver. 

The  courtly  knights  of  olden  days, 
Whose  chivalry  we  honor,— 

Not  such  bright  days  as  these,  our  May's, 
WTith  golden  bars  upon  her, — 

Saw  in  their  festive  time  arise 

Nor  half  the  shimmering  splendor 


KNIGII TS  OF  P  YTHIAS.  1 09 

As  ours,  whose  skies  reflect  their  dyes, 
In  lingering  sunsets  tender. 

For  golden  are  our  promised  grains, 

* 

That  gather  through  their  sluices  ; 
The  golden  grains  from  earlier  rains, 

And  golden  vintage  juices, 
Make  promise,  with  maturing  suns, 

Fruition  for  to-morrow  ; 
From  mountain  runs,  in  golden  tons, 

Our  treasury  we  borrow. 

And  golden  are  the  gates  that  bar 

The  sea's  pacific  motion, 
As  from  afar  the  wave-rocked  spar 

Speeds  o'er  the  waste  of  ocean  ; 
And  in  our  harbor  land-locked  lay 

The  fleets  from  every  nation — 
From  far  Cathay,  and  ice-bound  bay, 

From  every  sea-washed  station. 

To  consecrate  and  weld  anew 

The  sacred  ties  of  friendship, 
Our  Pythian  love  for  Damon  prove, 

Cement  fraternal  kinship, 


no  DRIFTWOOD. 

Revive  the  errantry  of  knights, 
To  kindly  greet  each  other, 

To  reunite,  and  in  our  might 
To  be  to  each  a  brother. 

Thus  do  we  celebrate  the  day 

Replete  with  most  of  gladness, 
When  blossoms  play  o'er  each  new  way, 

And  leave  no  room  for  sadness. 
Thus  do  we  press  in  friendship's  palm 

Each  hand,  with  clasp  fraternal  ; 
Through  storm  or  calm,  or  rude  alarm, 

Our  kinship  is  eternal. 

Long  live  the  recompense  of  good, 

The  price  of  honor's  merit, 
To  those  who,  wooed  by  mercy,  stood  ; 

Their  strength  may  we  inherit, 
To  lend  sweet  charity  to  all, 

Though  erring  footsteps  lead  them  ; 
Wrong  tempteth  all,  the  strong  may  fall 

When  storms  enough  impede  them. 

So  down  by  Babylonian  streams, 
Where  sits  the  mourning  weeper, 


KNIGHTS  OF  PYTHIAS.  1 1 1 

When  early  gleams — morn's  tranquil  beams — 

Send  us  like  willing  reaper, 
Who  gathers  up  the  yellow  sheaves, 

Bestowing  to  the  gleaner, 
Whose  bounty  leaves,  to  grant  retrieves, 

To  him  whose  lot  is  meaner. 

We'll  give  benevolence  indeed, 

To  every  cause  that  needs  us  ; 
We'll  sow  good  seed,  the  hungry  feed, 

Where  tender  pity  leads  us  ; 
Where'er  misfortune  sends  a  blight, 

We'll  give  that  cause  assistance  ; 
To  every  right  we  give  our  plight, 

To  every  wrong  resistance. 

Here  each  one  labors  to  advance 

The  honors  of  his  station, 
To  so  enhance  his  circumstance, 

And  rise  by  acclamation. 
The  page,  who,  with  the  titled  squire, 

On  knighthood  is  attendant, 
May  still  aspire  to  orders  higher, 

Become  the  knight  commandant. 


112  DRIFTWOOD. 

Whoe'er  his  plume  would  graceful  wear, 

Must  plume  himself  by  labor, 
For  none  may  share  these  honors  rare 

Through  merit  of  his  neighbor. 
As  sturdy  knights,  in  valor  strong 

As  ever  lifted  visor, 
In  deed  or  song  to  us  belong, 

None  happier  nor  wiser. 

And  as  the  labors  of  the  years 

Put  nature's  crown  upon  her, 
So  he  who  bears  our  order's  spears 

May  win  the  spurs  of  honor. 
To  chivalry  and  valor  when, 

Each  loyal  cause  attending, 
Indite  we  then  by  speech  and  pen, 

Be  knighthood's  day  unending. 

Nor  shall  the  chivalry  of  knights 
Excel  our  impulse  human, 

We  still  indite,  in  love  of  right, 
The  debt  we  owe  to  woman. 

One  toast  we  pledge,  and  that  not  long, 
O  woman  !  ne'er  forsake  us  ! 


KNIGHTS  OF  P  YTH1AS. 
Your  virtues  long  we'll  sing  in  song, 
We're  only  what  you  make  us. 

Then  many  blessings  on  the  day, 

And  to  our  noble  order  ; 
May  each  fair  May  like  this  be  gay, 

Along  time's  fretted  border. 
May  friendship,  linked  with  chanty, 

Benevolence  bestowing, 
Our  watchword  be,  the  future  see 

The  harvest  of  our  sowing. 

Read  May  ist,  1878. 


1 14  DRIFTWOOD. 


WELCOME  TO  GRANT  !  * 

DEAR  General  Grant,  you  are  welcome  at  home, 

Twould  be  hard  to  tell  how  we  have  missed  you, 
While  you  have  been  cradled  on  every  sea's  foam, 

And  crowned  heads  have  been  vicing  to  feast  you. 
You  have  journeyed,  no  doubt,  where  the  flowers  are  as 
sweet, 

Round  the  bowers  of  old  knightly  romances  ; 
But  the  children   would  here   cast   them   down  at  your 
feet 

As  the  hour  of  your  coming  advances. 

How  we  eagerly  watched  for  that  last  homeward  trip, 

Till  anxiety  governed  our  senses  ; 
And  the  shout  that  went  up  when  they  signalled  the  ship, 

Was  heartfelt  and  free  from  pretenses. 
Of  course  we  are  proud  that  they  prize  you  abroad, 

And  honors  were  each  day  repeating. 
But  none  in  those  far-away  lands  you  have  trod, 

Could  give  you  so  hearty  a  greeting. 

*  Written  for  Camp-Fire  and  Reception,  to  U.  S.  Grant,  Sept.,  1879 


WELCOME  TO  GRANT!  115 

For  the  "  boys  "  who  went  with  you  at  Abraham's  call, 

When  the  land  with  disunion  was  shaken, 
To  defend  or  to  die,  that  one  star  should  not  fall, 

Or  its  place  on  our  shield  be  forsaken, — 
The  soldiers  who  shouldered  their  knapsacks  to  tramp 

Through  the  swamps  and  the  poison  morasses, 
To  picket  at  night  far  from  shelter  or  camp, 

To  guard  all  the  dangerous  passes, — 

Their  hearts  are  as  loyal  as  when  in  the  blue, 

They  followed  the  fifer  and  drummer 
On  that  line,  the  invincible  order  from  you, 

Though  it  took  the  whole  army  all  summer. 
They  honored  in  peace,  and  they  loved  you  in  war, 

No  distance  can  memory  sever  ; 
All  people  may  love  you  wherever  you  are, 

But  the  "  boys  "  want  you  with  them  forever. 

But  isn't  it  grand  that  the  war-cry  is  hushed, 

That  crimson  no  more  are  the  rivers, 
And  the  cheek  of  fraternity  no  more  is  flushed 

With  the  hate  that  our  unity  severs, 
That  they  who  were  bravest  in  battle  array, 

And  Roman-like  went  to  defeat  you, 


n6  DRIFTWOOD. 

The  valorous  boys  who  defended  the  gray, 
Side  by  side  with  the  blue  went  to  meet  you  ? 

They  only  remember  the  happier  side, 

Appomattox  and  Lee's  surrender, 
Yet  honor  the  soldier,  with  patriots'  pride, 

As  the  country's  most  gallant  defender. 
And  we  know  that  the  roll-call  of  honor  above, 

Since  Death  on  his  bosom  has  laid  them, 
Leaves  nought  of  the  red  on  his  signet,  but  love, 

And  nought  in  our  hearts  to  upbraid  them. 

And  Washington,  Abraham,  Stonewall,  and  Lee 

Will  still  be  the  nation's  evangels, 
With  all  the  brave  souls  from  the  land  of  the  free, 

Whose  muster  has  called  to  the  angels, 
Who  loving  the  land  of  our  banner  have  died, 

The  tricolors  liberty  bore  us  ; 
May  nothing  the  stars  in  its  azure  divide, 

And  forever  one  banner  float  o'er  us. 


GO  AND   TELL  IT  TO  THE  BEES.  117 


GO  AND  TELL  IT  TO  THE  BEES. 

TO     MY     FATHER,     A.     H.     HART,     WHO     PASSED     AWAY    AMONG     HIS 
BEES,     AT    APPLETON,     WIS,     IN    HIS    75TH    YEAR. 

HAVE  you  heard  the  olden  legend 

By  the  eastern  people  told, 
Of  the  sweet,  strange  superstition, 

That  when  Death's  dark  pinions  fold 
Newly  round  some  cherished  loved  one, 

Then  the  dearest  friend  to  these 
To  the  busy  hive  must  hasten, 

And  must  tell  it  to  the  bees  ? 

Is  it  true,  some  spirit  lingers 

'Twixt  their  busy  lives  and  ours, 
And  that  half  their  sweets  they  gather 

From  the  breaths  of  human  flowers  ? 
Did  some  other  winged  thing  tell  them, 

When  the  bees,  o'er  drifts  of  snow, 
To  her  window  came  to  perish, 

When  she  died,  who  loved  them  so  ? 


uS  DRIFTWOOD, 

How  distinctly  I  remember 

All  those  drear  un-mothered  years  ; 
Of  the  lake-side  and  the  cottage 

Where  I  wept  my  childish  tears  ; 
How  from  early  budding  April, 

Till  the  autumn  sered  the  trees, 
Every  twilight  found  my  father 

Busy  with  his  swarms  of  bees. 

For  they  loved  him  and  caressed  him 

With  their  gauzy,  restless  wings, 
Dusty  with  the  yellow  pollen, 

Girt  about  with  golden  rings. 
Year  by  year  they  thus  enriched  him, 

With  the  sweets  from  flowering  trees  ; 
And  with  each  white  thread  that  crowned  him, 

Dearer  grew  to  him  the  bees. 

Oh  !  I  know  how  they  will  miss  him 

All  the  summer  afternoons, 
When  the  languid  perfume  lingers 

O'er  the  lily-spread  lagoons. 
And  the  angel  that  received  him 

Must  have  told  among  the  trees. 


GO  AND  TELL  IT  TO  THE  BEES.  119 

When  the  dear  old  man,  grown  weary, 
Fell  asleep  among  the  bees. 

Busy  bees,  cease  not  your  humming, 

Burdened  with  the  summer's  sweets, 
Hallowed  thoughts  round  you  are  clustered, 

Where  the  past  and  future  meets 
When  shall  come  the  dark-winged  angel, 

And  my  weary  spirit  frees, 
Will  some  loving  friend  or  kindred 

Tell  it  to  my  father's  bees  ? 

Appleton  Press. 


120  DRIFTWOOD. 

FOUR-LEAF  CLOVER. 

A    FAIRY    LEGEND    FOR    FOUR    LITTLE    DOTS. 

DOWN  the  lane,  up  the  lane,  over  and  over, 
Four  little  dots  hunt  the  four-leaf  clover. 
Oh,  queen-mother  fairy,  come  out  of  the  bell 
Of  the  four-o'clock's  ruby-red  lip  and  tell 
Where  they  grow.     And  she  heard  a  little  sob 
From  Lizzie  and  Nannie  and  Helen  and  Bob. 

All  day  in  the  clover  they  vainly  were  trying 
Four  little  leaves  on  a  stem  to  be  spying  ; 
For  who  finds  this  clover  needs  only  to  wish, 
To  eat  berries  and  cream  from  a  pure  silver  dish. 
The  fairy  queen  came  from  a  white  lily  bell, 
And  Baby  Bob  vanished,  where  no  one  could  tell. 

Down  in  the  grass  in  a  nook  that  was  shady, 
Searching  again  went  each  eager  young  lady. 
" Fairy  queen,  fairy  queen,  where  is  our  clover?" 
"  You  shall  learn,  dots,  when  the  searching  is  over. 
From  a  pansy's  heart  danced  the  wee  fairy  queen, 
And  Helen  and  Nannie  could  nowhere  be  seen. 


FOUR-LEAF  CLOVER.  1 2 1 

0 
And  Lizzie,  the  elder,  a  lone  little  rover, 

Looked  for  Helen  and  Baby  and  Nan  in  the  clover. 

She  called  and  she  ran,  and,  oh  !  how  she  tried, 

As  she  searched  through  the  grass,  till  she  sat  down  and 

cried. 

The  fairy's  wand  dropped  with  a  soft,  gentle  sweep, 
And  the  tired  little  darling  fell  fast,  fast  asleep. 

The  sunlight  came  up  o'er  the  dear  fairy  mother, 

And  she  knew  how  the  little  ones  each  loved  the  other. 

She  shook  out  the  dew  from  her  bright  diadem, 

And  four  leaves  grew  out  on  a  soft  little  stem. 

She  named  them,  and  guess  the  four  names  if  you  can  ; 

They  were  Baby  Bob,  Lizzie,  and  Helen,  and  Nan. 

SAN  FRANCISCO. 


122  DRIFTWOOD. 


GARFIELD. 

DEAD  !   He  is  dead,  our  beloved  commander  ; 
Worn  out  at  last,  his  proud  spirit  is  free  ; 
Promoted  to  orders  still  higher  and  grander 

Than  those  he  laid  down  at  the  ebb  of  life's  sea. 
Care  for  him  tenderly,  angels,  who  came  for  him  ; 
Noblest  of  earth's  are  the  titles  we  claim  for  him. 
What  more  endearing  in  heaven  will  they  name  for  him  ? 

Vain  were  the  prayers  to  restore  to  our  numbers, 

Vain  were  our  tears,  but  God  best  understands  ; 
Restful  at  last  he  so  peacefully  slumbers, 

Safe  in  the  keeping  of  holier  hands. 
Care  for  him  tenderly,  angels,  who  came  for  him; 
Noblest  of  earth's  are  the  titles  we  claim  for  him, 
What  more  endearing  in  heaven  will  they  name  for  him? 


GAR  FIELD.  123 

Comrade  and  hero,  all  virtues  combining, 

Soul  all  too  pure  for  life's  rancor  and  stain, 
Suffering-  wrongs  and  all  pains  unrepining, 

Heart  of  the  nation,  in  martyrdom  slain. 
Care  for  him  tenderly,  angels,  who  came  for  him  ; 
Noblest  of  earth's  are  the  titles  we  claim  for  him, 
What  more  endearing  in  heaven  will  they  name  for  him  ? 

Silent  the  tears  of  the  nation  are  falling, 

With  the  grief-stricken  mother's,  whose  tenderest  care 
Each  hour  some  sweet  thought  of  her  boy  was  recalling, 

And  devising  new  gifts  for  her  hands  to  prepare. 
Care  for  him  tenderly,  angels,  who  came  for  him  ; 
Noblest  of  earth's  are  the  titles  we  claim  for  him, 
What  more  endearing  in  heaven  will  they  name  for  him  ? 

And  we  weep  for  her  heart  who  so  bravely  is  bearing 

The  grief  that  comes  deepest  to  such  widowed  lives  ; 
The  weeds  that  she  wears  the  whole  nation  is  wearing, 

And  we  honor  and  love  her,  the  noblest  of  wives. 
Care  for  him  tenderly,  angels,  who  came  for  him  ; 
Noblest  of  earth's  are  the  titles  we  claim  for  him, 
What  more  endearing  in  heaven  will  they  name  for  him? 


124  DRIFTWOOD. 

For  the  children,  thrice  blessed  in  a  father  so  tender, 
Who  will  nevermore  cluster  in  play  at  his  knees, 
Our  prayers  we  unite  to  the  orphan's  defender ; 

We  are  all  of  us  orphaned  in  grieving  with  these. 
Care  for  him  tenderly,  angels,  who  came  for  him  ; 
Noblest  of  earth's  are  the  titles  we  claim  for  him, 
What  more  endearing  in  heaven  will  they  name  for  him  ? 

O  spirits  of  heroes  whose  deeds  are  immortal  ! 

O  bosoms  of  Lincoln  and  Washington  blest ! 
Infold  and  enshrine  in  your  star-fretted  portals 

Our  beloved  commander,  and  give  to  him  rest  ! 
Care  for  him  tenderly,  angels,  who  came  for  him  ; 
Noblest  of  earth's  are  the  titles  we  claim  for  him, 
What  more  endearing  in  heaven  will  they  name  for  him  ? 
Garfield,  our  comrade,  beloved  and  blest ! 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  Sept.  22,  1881. 


A  CABIN  HOME.  125 


A  CABIN  HOME.* 

Ox  we  go  o'er  vale  and  upland, 
Fragrance  fills  the  dewy  morn, 

Joyously  we  breathe  the  odors 

From  the  meadows  newly  shorn. 

Now  we  pass  the  rustic  village, 

Which  so  near  the  forest  stands, 

That  it  seems  like  hidden  jewel 
Girt  about  by  emerald  bands. 

But  farewell,  dear  quiet  village, 

Other  haunts  than  thine  we  seek, 

'Tis  a  cabin  where  the  wild  winds 
Fan  a  budding  maiden's  cheek  ; 

Where  the  graceful  woodbine  tvvineth 

Sweetly  by  the  cabin  door, 
And  a  breeze,  ofttimes  too  playful, 

Strews  its  blossoms  o'er  the  floor ; 

*  Written  impromptu  on  visiting  the  home  of  General  Benj.  J.  Sweet, 
in  the  suburbs  of  Chilton,  Calumet  Co.,  Wis.,  in  June,  1862. 


126  DRIFTWOOD. 

Where  the  noise  of  babbling  children 
Echoes  through  the  forest  wild ; 

Was  there  ever  music  sweeter 

Than  the  dear  voice  of  a  child  ? 

And  the  mother's  voice  of  welcome, 
Can  we  e'er  forget  its  tone, 

Or  the  heart  that  spoke  in  glances 
Sympathetic  with  our  own  ? 

No,  the  flowers  of  spring  may  wither, 
While  a  fragrance  still  remains, 

And  a  lute  long,  long  forgotten 

Wake  again  its  sweetest  strains. 

So  the  varied  scenes  that  gather 
Often  o'er  life's  changing  way, 

May  obscure  for  days  together 

All  the  glad  things  of  that  day  ; 

But  when  memory  turns  the  pages, 
Pausing  only  with  the  good, 

Long  she'll  tarry  with  the  warm  hearts 
In  that  cabin  near  the  wood. 


WEDDING  ANNIVERSARY.  127 


WEDDING  ANNIVERSARY. 

THE  genial  seasons  come  and  go, 

Each  in  its  time  finds  greeting, 
From  April's  tearful  overflow, 

Through  summer's  songs  repeating, 
When,  sere,  the  autumn  casts  her  leaves 

Where  nature's  heart  is  lying, 
And  o'er  the  year's  well-gathered  sheaves 

December's  winds  are  sighing. 

Each  brings  its  weight  of  hidden  woe, 

Each  holds  its  joy  supernal, 
As  through  the  drifts  of  winter's  snow, 

Spring  brings  her  blossoms  vernal. 
And  clustering  memories  crown  the  years 

With  more  of  joy  than  sorrow. 
For  love  outlives  griefs  bitter  tears, 

And  wreathes  with  hope  the  morrow. 

And  blest  the  day  that  happy  finds 
Surcease  to  loveless  weeping, 


128  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  matehood's  circlet  links  and  binds, 

Love's  tender  sequence  keeping  ; 
For  sacred  thrills  that  soulful  lyre, 

When  loving  hands  attune  it, 
Whose  altar  shrines  the  nuptial  fire 

Which  makes  two  souls  a  ur.it. 

May  many  be  these  happy  hours, 

Your  nuptials  in  reviewal, 
Strewn  be  your  path  with  hope's  fair  flowers 

Each  day  bring  joy's  renewal ; 
May  time,  that  often  wanton  plays, 

Crown  each  year  as  your  sweetest, 
And  make  succeeding  nuptial  days 

Your  happiest  and  completest. 

And  speed  the  years  or  swift  or  slow, 

Till  life's  romance  is  olden, 
Though  in  your  locks  be  threads  of  snow, 

May  you  have  wedding  golden. 
And  later  still,  when  o'er  life's  bars 

Your  feeble  steps  are  treading, 
May  angel  guests,  beyond  the  stars. 

Give  you  celestial  wedding. 
SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL.,  Jan.,  1885. 


FROM  "  SPIRIT  A  THESIS."  129 


FROM  "SPIRITATHESIS." 

THERE  is  no  law  of  chance. 
Though  Nature's  bosom  pulses  soft  and  slow, 
Or  with  a  heavier  flood  her  rivers  flow, 
Sends  her  wild  torrents  fierce  to  rend  a  gorge, 
Hurls  her  swift  lightning  from  her  vulcan  forge, 
Volcano's  belching  down  her  mountain  steeps, 
Or  dark,  coiled  venom's  pestilential  sweeps, 
Centers  her  furies  in  the  human  mind, 
With  passions  carnal  and  to  vice  inclined, 
With  hunger  like  a  vulture's  in  his  eye, 
Demoniac  lust  and  fury  raging  high  ; 
Or  softer  sheen  on  placid  lake  she  draws 
The  silvery  pencil  of  her  gentler  laws, 
And  pads  of  lilies  white  berim  her  lips, 
Where  crystal  mirages  the  stars  eclipse, 
Gives  to  the  winglet  of  the  air  a  zest — 
Reason  or  instinct,  which? — to  build  its  nest, 
Wild  beasts  their  cunning  and  their  cowardice 
To  slay  each  other  and  shun  man's  device  ; 


130  DRIFTWOOD. 

Or  in  her  soft  maternal  moods  she  keeps 
Her  starry  vigils,  shining  while  she  weeps, 
Holding  her  children  to  her  bosom  pressed, 
And  gives  them  dreams  of  an  eternal  rest ; 
Divinest  when  to  erring  souls  she  nears 
With  mercy's  tender  and  forgiving  tears, — 
Whatever  is,  is  the  effect  of  laws, 
Obedient  always  to  their  parent  cause. 
When  nature  deviates,  her  range  of  chance 
Lies  in  some  unrestricted  circumstance 
Hidden  within  the  matrix  where  she  molds 
The  thing  she  gestates  or  to  life  unfolds. 
Whate'er  to  harmony  or  discord  tends, 
True  to  some  law  her  courses  shape  their  ends. 

A'.  P.  Journal,  Nov.,  1872. 


ACROSTIC.  131 


ACROSTIC. 

KATE,  I  would  that  but  by  wishing, 
All  that's  fair  might  be  your  lot, 

To  some  Magian  would  I  whisper, 
Ever  heed  her  lightest  thought. 

And  should  time  in  changing  ever 
Note  a  shadow  o'er  her  life, 

Near  her  be  thou,  softly  bending  ; 
Hear  her  in  the  hour  of  strife. 

Oh  !  watch  o'er  her,  gentle  Magian, 
Wake  to  joy  her  griefs  or  woes. 

Ever  with  the  golden  sunlight, 

Strew  the  pathway  where  she  goes. 

MEMPHIS,  TENN.,  Nov.  1863. 


132  DRIFTWOOD. 


COMPENSATION.* 

LIFE'S  retributive  law  is  just  : 

We  harvest  what  is  sown  ; 
The  pangs  we  bring-  to  others'  breasts 

Must  surely  pierce  our  own. 

Strong  is  the  hand  that  builds  the  arch, 
Stronger  the  thought  that  plans  ; 

Swift  is  the  lightning's  flash  of  words, 
Fleeter  the  soul's  commands. 

Common  the  crucificial  wood 

Stretched  Calvary  above, 
Turned  priceless  sandal  when  baptized 

By  more  than  human  love. 

*  Impromptu,  close  of  lecture,  Metropolitan  Temple,  San  Francisco 
Dec.  28,  1884. 


COMPENSA  TION. 
Clear  is  the  eye  that,  o'er  life's  ills 

Transfixed,  still  lifts  to  heaven  ; 
Greater  the  soul  that  here  forgives 

The  sin  to  be  forgiven. 

Bitter  may  be  the  blight  of  wrong 
That  rankles  the  heart  within  ; 

But  love,  that  waits,  and  time  will  prove 
The  sinner  above  the  sin. 

Heaven  is  not  won  by  easy  steps, 

But  over  toilsome  bars, 
As  over  rugged  mountain  heights 

We  climb  to  reach  the  stars. 

But  whatsoe'er  the  devious  way, 
Be  this  the  soul's  sure  screed, 

That  soul  most  helps  its  own  advance 
That  helps  where  others  need. 

And  if  to  gain  life's  recompense, 
When  heaven  its  records  scan, 

The  angels  make  for  him  defense, 
Who  lives  or  dies  for  man. 


134  DRIFTWOOD. 


TO   "BEESWAX." 

REPLY  TO    LETTER    FROM    LA    S ,    WHO    ISSUED    THE    IDEA    IN 

PAMPHLET  THAT  HONEYCOMB  WAS  A  FUNGUS  GROWTH  EVOLVED 
FROM  EXCREMENT  AND  HEAT  OF  THE  BODY  OF  THE  BEE  IN  THE 
HIVE. 

How  are  you,  my   "Beeswax,"  you  horrible  tease? 
Your  letter  came  duly,  or  your  essay  on  Bees. 
Though  I'm  sure  I  was  struck  with  an    "I  dear  "  so  funny, 
That  a  foolish  old  bear  should  address  me  "  My  honey." 

Your  arguments  many  may  sweetly  discourse, 
Yet  to  people  of  sense  they  will  bear  little  force, 
For  philosophy  that  has  to  be  "  drawn"  for  a  bee 
Is  too  weak  in  its  points  for  a  woman  to  see. 

For  a  man  who  advances  an  idea  so  dead 

Must  have  some  time  been   troubled  with  drones  in  his 

head, 

That  the  busy  and  ever-industrious  bee 
Should  wait  while  the  comb-cells  grow  up  like  a  tree. 


TO  "BEESWAX."  135 

And  you  ask  (why  so  foolish  I'd  never  have  guessed 

If  the  comb  into  cells  by  the  bee  is  compressed 

And  brought  to  the  hive  on  its  body  in  rings, 

While  you  say  you  were  too  much  afraid  of  their  stings 

To  ever  go  close  to  their  hives  on  a  venture, 
You  are  still  on  this  topic  an  able  commentor)  : 
"Why  in  winter,  when  vegetation  sleeps  under  the  snow, 
The  comb  in  the  hives  should  continue  to  grow  ? " 

The  numerous  flakes  that  lie  scattered  about, 
Seem  all  you  desire  to  put  that  beyond  doubt  ; 
And  did  you  but  think  that  these  flakes  on  the  floor 
Were  the  caps  that  have  covered  their  sweet  winter  store. 

But  isn't  it  strange  that  these  self-sealing  cans 
Should  grow,  to  exclude  all  the  air,  without  plans  ? 
Since  you're  sticking  to  nature  without  an  intent, 
You  must  own  I've  an  eye  out  for  sweets  that  ferment. 

Perhaps  I  am  saucy  to  offer  advice, 

And  your  wrath  may  wax  warm,  if  I  do,  in  a  trice, 

But  nevertheless  my  words  would  be  these, 

If  you  patiently  watch  you  may  still  learn  of  bees. 


136  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  now  I'll  subscribe  to  this  doggerel  rhyme, 
And  serve  you  another  dish  some  other  time  ; 
And  as  there  could  never  be  honey  distilled, 
Without  Beeswax  to  spread  out  its  caps  to  be  filled, 

You  \vill  pardon  me  now  for  addressing  you  so, 
For  "Honey"  comes  next  after  Beeswax,  you  know; 
And  I'll  pledge  you  my  word,  still  as  friendly  and  true, 
You'll  find  me  the  same,  ever,  Addie  Ballou. 


THE   WORLD  MUST  HAVE  ITS  CRUCIFIED.        137 


THE  WORLD  MUST  HAVE  ITS  CRUCIFIED.* 

FAR  to  the  east,  and  many  years  ago, 

A  village  nestled  near  a  wave-washed  beach 

Among  the  hills.     A  streamlet's  silver  flow 

Flecked  o'er  the  landscape's  distant  reach. 

High  rose  the  swell  of  anthems  on  the  air 

O 

From  steepled  churches,  on  the  sabbath  day  ; 
And  high  the  flagstaffs,  on  the  village  square, 

Flung  to  the  wind  their  freedom's  pennons  gay 

On  days  of  jubilee  and  on  July  the  fourth  ; 

And  on  the  streets  no  traffic  of  the  week 
Or  roysterous  voice  of  boys  who  sally  forth, 

On  sabbath  days  could  any  trespass  make. 

*  This  poem  refers  to  an  incident  in  the  memory  of  childhood  days 
that  occurred  in  the  native  village  of  the  writer  (Chagrin  Falls,  Ohio), 
when  that  glorious  woman,  Abbie  Kelly,  afterwards  Foster,  came  there 
to  advocate  the  abolition  of  the  Afro-American  slave.  The  church 
bells  were  tolled  as  she  departed  on  her  self-appointed  missionary  work, 
whatever  the  little  village  may  afterwards  have  done  to  redeem  its 
unhappy  part  in  this  affair. 


138  DRIFTWOOD. 

Meekly  the  parson   read  his  weekly  text  : 

"As  to  the  least  of  these,  so  do  ye  unto  me," 

With  comments.     While  the  deacons,  sitting  next, 

With  warm  "  Amens"  responded,  and  resignedly 

Turned  down  the  edge  of  consciousness  awhile, 
Nodding  acceptance  to  the  plea  for  grace, 

And,  with  complaisance,  at  the  close  would  smile 

And  say,   "  Ours  really  is  a  very  godly  place." 

And  all  the  saintly  women,  in  their  pews, 

Smiled  their  approval  o'er  each  restless  fan — 

"He  is  so  good,  our  minister  ;    I  like  his  views — " 
And  worshipped  less  the  Maker  than  the  man. 

One  day  a  stranger  through  the  village  gate 

Made  entrance  on  a  mission,  all  of  love, 

For  an  o'er-ladened  race  to  supplicate, 

Each  saintly  heart  in  sympathy  to  move. 

In  modest  mien  and  gentleness  of  heart, 

Yet  with  a  fire  of  eloquence  sublime, 

Above  the  rabble  in  the  public  mart 

That  voice  was  lifted  in  a  cause  divine. 


THE  WORLD  MUST  HAVE  ITS  CRUCIFIED.         139 

But  straight  arose  that  godly  little  town, — 

Rose  up  indignantly  with  one  accord, — 

And  said,  while  gathering  the  righteous  frown, 

"This  thing  will  never,  never,  please  the  Lord! 

"  In  scripture  rendering  it  would  appear, 

However  sore  the  need  be  of  the  human, 

Saint  Paul  has  made  our  duty  clear, 

We  must  keep  silence  on  the  part  of  woman." 

Then  first  in  order  (all  the  brethren  led) 

The  village  scoffer  who  his  time  employs 

With  vicious  rumor,  or  on  scandal  fed, 

And  vulgar  jests  deals  to  the  idle  boys. 

And  so  they  gossiped  round  about  the  square, 
Prospecting  on  the  moral  of  the  case, 

And  felt  abused  that  any  woman  dare 

To  speak  in  public  in  their  righteous  place. 

The  perfect  women  drew  their  skirts  aside, 

And  sneered  at  very  mention  of  her  name, 

And  as  she  passed  their  way,  indignant  cried, 

"The  wicked  creature  !     Isn't  it  a  shame?" 


140  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  so  the  whisper  rose  to  be  a  din, 

Until  the  very  thunders  seemed  let  down. 

They  said,   "We  cannot  answer  for  this  sin 

Unless  we  send  this  woman  from  the  town." 

"  They  stoned  the  prophets  in  the  olden  time, 
And  Christ  was  buffeted  in  Galilee, 

Joan  of  Arc  they  burned,  and  for  no  crime," 

She  said  :   ' '  What  is  there  then  for  one  like  me  ?  " 

Then  as  the  clustered  village  sank  from  sight, 

To  that  lone  figure,  on  her  toilsome  way, 

The  church  bells  clamored  as  at  dead  of  night 
The  fire-cry  calls  the  sleeper  to  the  fray. 

And  still  retreating  from  the  noisy  street, 

The  weary  pilgrim  from  disgrace  went  out. 

Toll !   toll !   ding  !   dong  !   the  bell's  funereal  beat 

Died  on  the  air  with  mingled  noise  and  shout. 

To-day  that  silvered  head  is  sweetly  bowed 
Beneath  its  coronet  of  peaceful  age, 

And  justly  is  the  nation  fondly  proud 

To  write  her  record  on  historic  page. 

SUISUN,  CALIFORNIA,  June  13,  1878. 


GUILTY.  i4I 


GUILTY.* 

GUILTY  !     Yer  Honor,  I  do  not  deny  it ; 

I  did  what  I  could,  sir,  to  help  on  the  riot. 

The  right  or  the  wrong  of  it  I  don't  defend, 

But  where  do  these  money  sharps  think  it  will  end? 

All  the  days  of  my  life  I  was  brought  up  to  work, 
And  these  hands  of  mine  ain't  no  hands  to  shirk  ; 
They  be  the  willin'est  hands,  I'll  fce  bound, 
Nor  stronger  nor  abler  than  them  can  be  found. 

I  be  a  man  for  peace,  too  ;  but  if  the  right 
Can't  come  without  it,  then  I'm  for  fight. 
The  mouths  of  the  children,  they  must  be  fed, 
For  hunger,  yer  Honor,  knows  no  law  but  bread. 

Just  look  at  me,  Judge,  do  I  look  like  a  scamp, 
Because  bein'  hungry  has  made  me  a  tramp  ? 
Do  I  look  like  a  deadbeat,  choosin'  to  roam, 
If  work  could  be  had,  and  with  comfort  at  home  r 

*  Daily  Post.     Read  by  the  author  before  the  workingmen's  mass 
meeting,  San  Francisco,  August  26,  1877. 


1 42  DRIFTWOOD. 

Cowardly,  was  it  ?     Well,  likely  it  may  be  ; 

But  I  never  knowed  fear,  and  I  ain't  no  baby 

To  go  whinin'  about ;  nor  I  ain't  no  sneak 

To  pander  and  skulk  when  it's  blows  that  must  speak. 

Why,  I  fit  with  Grant  down  the  old  Mississip, 
And  'twas  there  where  the  cannon's  red-hot  iron  lip 
Spewed  into  my  side  such  a  foretaste  of  hell, 
And  tore  off  my  leg  with  a  fragment  of  shell. 

I've  stood  picket  duty  with  death  like  a  ruffin, 
Waist-deep  in  the  swamps,  without  blanket  or  coffin, 
To  give  decent  rites  to  the  dyin'  when  dead, 
With  a  daily  allowance — two  slabs  of  hard  bread. 

And  I  ain't  the  old  soldier  to  discount  the  war  ; 

To  help  win  or  die  was  what  I  went  for. 

Nor  they  won't  complain,  the  dead,  there  in  their  graves 

Of  the  forfeit  they  made  to  make  free  men  of  slaves. 

It  was  somethin',  no  doubt,  to  lie  wasthV  away 
Dead-alive  in  the  prisons,  without  letters  or  pay  ; 
But  I  count  it  all  in  as  a  part  of  the  cost, 
And  if  victory  ended  it,  nothin'  was  lost. 


GUILTY.  143 

We  took  that  for  glory,  but  our  Waterloo  met 

With  a  tax  upon  labor  to  pay  the  war  debt  ; 

With  wages  reduced  to  compete  with  cheap  labor — 

With  Chinese  for  rivals  and  the  freedman  our  neighbor. 

Rights  of  property,  sir  !     Why,  all  property  gained 
Is  the  right  of  the  hand  that  by  labor  is  stained, 
Not  the  grasping  monopolists',  who  selfishly  hold 
The  result  of  the  worker  in  fetters  of  gold, 

While  industry  begs  for  a  pittance  for  bread 
That  millions  may  pillow  aristocracy's  head. 
Why,  these  very  railroads,  with  sinews  of  steel, 
Were  blood-wrought  from  sinews  that  quiver  and  feel. 

Shall  they  whose  hands  lifted  the  yoke  off  the  slave, 
Bend  their  heads  to  a  yoke  without  effort  to  save 
Their  manhood,  their  honor,  the  cheek  of  the  wife, 
From  the  insults  that  crimson  a  beggarly  life  ? 

We  are  cursed  by  contractors,  till  labor  no  more 
Means  honest  employment  and  homes  for  the  poor. 
If  we're  idle,  we're  paupers  ;  if  we  work,  we  are  slaves  ; 
If  we  strike  out  for  justice,  we're  branded  as  knaves. 


I44  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  now,  please,  yer  Honor,  I  plead  to  the  charge  ; 
I'm  guilty  of  dealin'  out  justice  at  large. 
But  if  ye'll  allow  me  one  question  of  grace, 
Pray,  what  would  yer  Honor  have  done  in  my  place? 


A  UTOGRAPH. 


AUTOGRAPH. 

AN     IMPROMPTU. 

WHEN  Nature  first  in  primal  dress, 
With  prentice  hand  adorning1, 

Flung  over  night  her  first  caress, 
She  named  the  glory  Morning. 

With  vigor,  strength,  ambition,  rife, 
No  doubt  of  power  betraying, 

Morn  represents  the  man  in  life, 
All  else  his  will  obeying. 

But  later,  when  the  toilsome  day 

Its  fretful  labor  closes, 
.When  weary  heart  and  footsteps  stray 
Where  peaceful  love  reposes, 

With  tender  touch  of  twilight  spell, 
To  soothe  life's  restive  fever, 

She  named,  like  thee,  her  vespers  well, 
Woman,  Evangel,  Eva. 

ALBUM,  Miss  EVA  CONANT. 

SAN  JOSE,  CALIFORNIA,  Dec.,  1883. 


'45 


146  DRIFTWOOD. 


MY   AMBITION. 

WHY  should  I  stoop  while  others  climb 

The  starry  steeps  to  fame  ? 
Why  should  the  fountains  of  success 

Forget  to  slake  my  flame  ? 

Why  should  these  arms  forever  grasp 

The  vacant,  empty  air  ? 
Why  fly  the  hopes  of  my  pursuit 

And  vanish  everywhere  ? 

Why  proudly  stand  on  fortune's  round 

Many  whose  deeds  in  life 
Are  not  inwrought  with  more  of  good, 

Or  half  the  wealth  of  strife  ? 

My  bleeding  feet  in  vain  pursue 
The  paths  that  bloom  for  them, 

And  cheers  are  theirs  from  lips  that  part 
On  me  but  to  condemn. 


M  Y  A  MBITION,  j  47 

Not  for  the  baubles  of  display 

Do  I  to  fame  aspire, 
But  that  it  crowns  with  brighter  grace 

The  strength  of  high  desire. 

Not  for  a  badge  of  honor,  bought 

At  price  of  honor  lost ; 
Not  for  position  high  in  rank, 

That  worth  should  be  its  cost  ; 

Not  for  a  gilded  recompense, 

To  pander  to  a  pride  ; 
Not  that  my  bark  adown  life's  stream 

Inanimate  might  glide ; 

But  only  that  these  unfledged  powers, 

Lying  conscious  in  my  breast, 
Might  leap  the  confines  of  their  tomb, 

And  scale  each  mountain's  crest. 

That  I  might  stand  beside  the  brave 

Who  dare  defend  the  right, 
And  in  the  conflict,  weak  or  strong, 

Be  foremost  in  the  fight. 


I48  DRIFTWOOD. 

That  I  might  hurl  to  hungry  ears 

The  thunders  of  decree, 
Anticipate,  from  things  that  are, 

The  things  that  are  to  be. 

Wake  with  authoritative  mien 

The  lethargy  of  men, 
Tear  down  the  altars  of  their  wrongs, 

And  build  to  right  again. 

Cleanse  out  the  debris  of  their  crimes 
By  speech  of  tongue  and  pen, 

Bring  back  the  man  from  maudlin  cups, 
Redeem  the  magdalen. 

Give  governmental  power  to  men 

To  till  the  idle  fields, 
That  stretching  o'er  the  trackless  waste 

No  sweet  fruition  yield. 

Give  industry  to  those  who  pace 
The  pauper's  listless  beat, 

And  on  the  soil  God  gave  man  free, 
Each  soul  a  home  retreat. 


MY  AMBITION.  149 

And  that  the  purpose  of  a  life 

Made  strong  by  daily  pain, 
Be  recognized  by  humane  acts, 

As  one  not  spent  in  vain. 

And  thus  with  all  life's  purpose  spent 

In  deeds  that  bless  mankind, 
Should  memory's  scroll  enroll  me  still 

Round  loving  hearts  entwined. 

And  when  adown  the  silent  stream, 

To  bend  life's  yielding  oar, 
Be  folded  in  love's  angel  arms, 

To  wander  never  more. 


Dec.  1869. 


DRIFTWOOD. 


LINES  IN  A  PORTFOLIO.* 

SWEET  remembrancer  of  friendship, 
On  thy  page  a  thought  I'll  trace. 

Thanks,  my  friend,  on  memory's  tablet 
Thine  shall  bear  an  honored  place. 

May  you  ever  live  in  sunlight, 
And  no  lingering  storm-cloud  rest 

O'er  thy  life  ;  enough  of  tempest 
Just  to  form  a  rainbow's  crest. 

May  thy  noon  of  life  be  glorious, 
Peaceful  when  thy  day  declines, 

And  no  friend  to  thee  less  faithful 
Than  the  one  who  pens  these  lines. 

*  To  "  Esculapius,"  Overtoil   Hospital,  Memphis,   Tenn.,  Feb.    10, 
1863. 


WHERE  DO  THE  SEA-GULLS  GO?  151 


WHERE  DO  THE  SEA-GULLS  GO  ? 

AWAY  from  the  docks  and  the  shipping 
That  tangle  the  breast  of  the  bay, 

From  the  flutter  of  hands  in  the  harbor, 
Our  ship  went  sailing  away. 

And  as  the  cannon's  brazen  lip 

Boomed  back  farewell,  from  our  good  ship 
A  score  of  snowy-breasted  things 
Swooped  low  and  drooped  their  downy  wings, 
And  rose  and  dropped  with  every  swell, 
And  cried  in  flutelike  tones,  "  Farewell." 

Up  rose  the  winds,  and  the  water 

In  fury  leaped  forward  and  aft, 
And  the  foam  and  the  spume  of  the  breakers 

Dashed  over  the  decks  of  our  craft, 
Till  rocked  upon  a  gentler  swell, 
Our  gallant  ship  uprose  and  fell. 

Still  followed  close  those  feathered  things 

Who  trip  and  swoop  with  noiseless  wings, 


152  DRIFTWOOD. 

Those  restless  birds,  by  day  and  night, 
Who  seaward  wing  their  ceaseless  flight. 

Away  and  away  o'er  the  ocean 
The  track  of  our  destinies  lay, 

Through  the  languor  of  tropical  evening, 
Though  the  tropical  languor  of  day, 

While  still  a  thousand  leagues  from  shore 

The  watery  waste  we  traverse  o'er  ; 
Like  phantoms  of  an  exile  troop, 
Those  pinions  o'er  the  waters  droop, 
And  swing  and  curve,  and  dip  trie  main, 
Then,  rising,  lift  their  plumes  again. 

And  this  I  asked  of  the  skipper  : 
"Pray  where  do  the  sea-gulls  go 

When  the  ships  which  their  white  wings  follow 
Go  down  with  the  wrecks  below  ?  " 

He  smiled,  and  looking  far  away 

Replied,   "  Ours  do  not  go  that  way." 

Heaven  grant  him  right ;  and  yet,   and  yet 
The  hearts  that  break  cannot  forget 
Those  who  along  the  sea-gull's  track 
Go  out,  but  nevermore  come  back. 


WHERE  DO  THE  SEA-GULLS  GO?  153 

With  a  strange  yet  a  sweet  superstition, 
A  nation  as  free  as  their  wings 

Believe  that  the  bird  of  the  ocean 
Good  speed  and  prosperity  brings. 

The  mariner  o'er  frozen  seas 

Thinks,  too,  the  souls  of  men    are  these  ; 
That  angels  of  the  so-called  dead 
In  these  their  own  bright  pinions  spread, 
And,  watchful  of  the  wrecks  and  shoals, 
Bring  safe  to  harbor  human  souls. 

Whatever  may  be  the  tradition, 

A  truth  or  a  fancy  of  thought, 
May  the  wing  of  our  angel  protect  us, 

That  calamity  follow  us  not, 
And  lip  to  lip,  and  heart  to  heart, 
May  all  yet  meet  who,  wide  apart, 

In  different  ways,  by  land  or  sea, 

Pursue  life's  varied  destiny. 

Oh,  white  wings,  bring  at  last  our  spars 

To  harbor  safe  beyond  the  stars. 

SHIPBOARD,  ZEALANDIA,. mid-ocean,  June  19,  1885. 
Bell,  Auckland,  N.  Z. 


1 54  DRIFTWOOD. 


WORMWOOD. 

I  SAID  as  I  gazed  on  her  ruined  life, 

I  could  curse  the  wretch  who  had  made  it  so ; 

And  I  set  my  teeth  till  my  purple  lips 
Were  rigid  and  cold  as  my  heart  below. 

I  clutched  my  hand  till  the  nails'  keen  edge 
Cut  a  furrow  deep  in  my  rigid  palm  ; 

I  groaned  aloud,    "  Has  it  come  to  this, 

That  the  wolf  has  ravished  our  sweet  ewe  lamb  ? 

Oh,  God  !  what  a  thing  is  a  woman's  love, 
To  be  won  at  the  cost  of  a  life  accursed, 

To  be  flung  like  a  worn-out  sandal  off, 

To  slake  the  fever  of  passionate  thirst. 
TERRE  HAUTE,  IND.,  1872. 


MY  DREAM  OF  SAINT  VALENTINE.  155 


MY  DREAM  OF  SAINT  VALENTINE. 

I  HAD  a  beautiful  dream  last  night, 

And  bright  was  the  vision  that  swelled  on  my  sight 

As  the  upper  world,  and  as  wondrous  rare 

As  the  zones  that  encircle  the  'habitants  there. 

Sweet  fancy  lent  me  her  golden  wings, 
And,  swift  as  an  unchained  peri  springs, 
Far,  far  I  sped  through  the  ether  blue, 
Till  the  world  in  its  darkness  sank  from  view. 

Then  in  sudden  splendor  I  saw  arise 

The  gates  that  open  to  Paradise. 

Lo  !   the  angel  who  waits  in  those  arches  wide 

Is  flinging  the  golden  barriers  aside. 

I  enter,  it  seems,  with  a  noiseless  tread  ; 
I  float  in  an  air  where  fragrance  is  shed 
As  sweet  as  the  astral  zephyr's  sigh 
O'er  the  sea  where  the  isles  of  the  spices  lie. 


156  DRIFTWOOD. 

Now  a  gush  of  sweet  harmony,  liquid  and  clear, 
Bursts  forth  like  a  charm  on  the  ambient  air  ; 
Now  it  falls  to  a  cadence,  now  rises  and  swells 
Like  the  pealing  tones  of  the  chiming  bells. 

No  bough  ever  waved  under  tropical  skies, 
But  graces  these  gardens  of  Paradise  ; 
No  flower  ever  bloomed  upon  earth's  fertile  sod, 
But  blossoms  more  sweet  in  this  valley  of  God. 

No  bird  ever  warbled  in  hawthorn  or  prune, 
But  sings  in  these  bowers  of  eternity's  June  ; 
No  hopeless  wish  of  the  human  breast, 
But  finds  in  this  heaven  its  want  redressed. 

I  glanced  where  the  notes  of  a  musical  strain 
Came  trembling  up  from  a  grass-green  lane  ; 
There  a  crystal  fount  in  the  sunlight  played, 
And  hanging  harps  by  a  breath  were  swayed ; 

There  countless  groups  o'er  the  wide  expanse 
Were  circling  round  in  a  bridal  dance. 
No  harem  veil  hides  half  the  graces 
That  glow  among  their  lovelit  faces. 


MY  DREAM  OF  SAINT  VALENTINE.  157 

And  I  saw  not  amid  that  countless  throng 
One  heart  that  beat  for  itself  alone, 
But  each  for  another  more  fondly  dear, 
As  if  no  sin  were  in  loving  here. 

I  sighed  as  I  turned  from  the  evergreen  glade, 
For  I  thought,  these  joys  too  soon  will  fade. 
For  I  knew  even  then  it  was  only  a  dream 
That  must  die  with  the  dawn  like  a  boreal  gleam. 

As  if  answering  back,  a  voice  replied, — 

'Twas  he  who  waits  in  those  arches  wide, — 

"Our  joys  renew  with  the  changing  years, 

And  it's  always  Saint  Valentine's  day  in  the  spheres." 

I  woke  ;  the  vision  forever  was  gone. 
Like  the  hopes  that  spring  fairest  in  youth's  sunny  dawn, 
Or  the  dewdrop  that  rests  on  the  lip  of  the  flower, 
It  gladdens  the  heart  though  it  live  but  an  hour. 
Chilian  Republican,  Feb.,  1861. 


158  DRIFTWOOD. 


NOT  ALONE  WITH  THE   NIGHT. 

NOT  alone  with  the  night, 

For  on  billows  of  light, 
Like  the  scintillant  rays  of  the  morning's  glad  sun, 

Like  a  messenger  dove, 

Wings  the  spirit  of  love, 
To  crown  and  compensate  each  desolate  one. 

Love  with  love  shall  be  blest, 

Heart  with  heart  shall  find  rest, 
When  life's  turbulent  billows  shall  lash  them  no  more. 

Though  the  waves  and  the  tide. 

Wide  their  moorings  divide, 
They  will  touch  the  same  sands  on  the  beautiful  shore. 

Not  alone  with  the  night, 

Though  the  canker  and  blight 
Like  a  vulture  have  fed  on  the  quivering  heart, 

For  the  spirit  of  love, 

Like  the  sweet  mother  dove, 
Keeps  watch  o'er  the  nest  till  the  young  pinions  start. 


NOT  ALONE  WITH  THE  NIGHT.  159 

Lip  to  lip  will  be  pressed, 

Heart  with  heart  will  find  rest, 
When  these  hungering  souls  span  their  circlet  of  years. 

Not  alone  with  the  night, 

For  an  angel  of  light 
Counts  the  beads  of  our  worth  by  the  falling  of  tears. 


160  DKIFTWOOD. 


SONG  STORY  FOR  THE  LITTLE  ONES. 

AUNTIE. — So  the  little  ones  want  me  to  tell  them  a  story  ? 
Well,  what  shall  it  be  about  ?— "  Old  mother  Morey  ? " 
Or  the  poor  little  kitten  that  drowned  in  the  well  ? 
Or  "Puss  in  Boots,"  and  what  befell 
The  "  King  of  Carabas  ' '  and  his  brother  ? 
Or  "Little  Jack,"  whose  indulgent  mother 
Gave  him  a  bean  of  such  wonderful  powers, 
That  it  grew  to  the  sky  in  a  couple  of  hours, 
And  when  it  had  grown  to  a  wonderful  tree, 
He  climbed  to  its  top  to  see  what  he  could  see, 
And  there  in  its  branches,  as  snug  as  a  mouse, 
A  savage  old  giant  had  built  him  a  house  ; 
How  he  killed  the  old  giant,  and  got  all  his  money  ? 

MARY. — No,  we  want  to  hear  something  that's  jolly  and 
funny. 

JAMIE. — Oh,  pshaw  !  can't  you  tell  us  a  story  that's  new  ? 
I  know  every  one  of  those  old  stones  through  ; 
I'd  like  to  hear  one  that  is  every  bit  true, 


SONG  STORY  FOR  THE  LITTLE  ONES.  161 

As  long  as  my  arm,  and  longer  too. 
Or  you  can  make  up  one,  I  guess,  that  will  do. 

AUNTIE. — Well!   let  me  see  ;  will  Johnnie  be  good, 
And  sit  in  his  chair  as  a  little  man  should  ? 

KATIE. — T  guess  he  had  better  be  put  in  his  bed, 
For  he'll  go  to  sleep  and  nod  off  his  head, 
Then  what  shall  we  do  for  a  Johnnie  to  tend  ? 

JAMIE. — Put  his  dress  on  a  pillow,  a  cap  on  the  end; 
It  won't  make  half  the  muss, 

And  keep  so  much  stiller, 
Nor  get  up  such  a  fuss, 

Our  pet,  Johnnie's  "piller." 

KATIE. — Oh,  go  away,  Jamie  ;  don't  pester  him  so  ; 
You  plague  him  so  much  he  don't  get  time  to  grow. 
There,  Katie  will  take  him  right  onto  her  lap, 
And  then  if  he  likes  he  can  take  a  nice  nap. 
And  then  his  clothes,  they  will  be  such  a  pest, 
Wouldn't  the  little  boy  first  be  undressed  ? 
There  go  his  shoes,  down  onto  the  floor, 
Peep,  little  feet,  I  shall  catch  his  toes, 
Out  and  in  as  they  come  and  go, 
Under  the  folds  of  his  robe  of  snow. 
See,  just  in  this  way,  before  he  knows, 
ii 


162  DRIFTWOOD. 

There,  hush  !     Never  mind,  we  won't  tease  any  more ; 
There,  cuddle  his  curly  pate  down  on  my  breast. 
Lulla-by-by, 
Then  shut  up  his  eye, 
And  see  how  nice  little  Johnnie  will  rest 

AUNTIE. — Well,  now  for  the  story.     Well,  children,  get 

quiet, 

And  then  if  you'll  listen  well,  auntie  will  try  it. 
Well,  let  me  see  ;   I  must  tell  it  in  rhyme, 
And  begin  the  old  way:    "Once  on  a  time, 

There  lived  a  man  " 

JAMIE. — That's  just  the  way  the  story  began 
About  that  terribly  wicked  man, 
Who  strutted  about  in  his  beard  of  blue, 
Who  killed  all  his  wives,  and  hung  them,  too. 

KATIE. — Are  you  telling  the  tale?     You  had  better  say 

less, 
And  listen  while  others  are  talking,  I  guess. 

AUNTIE. — Well,  once  on  a  time,  a  man  and  his  wife 
Who  had  never  done  any  harm  in  their  life, 
Lived  in  a  nice  cottage  just  under  the  hill  ; 
And   the  brook  that   rushed  by  turned  the  wheel  of  the 
mill, 


SOATG  STORY  FOR  THE  LITTLE  ONES.  163 

Where  the  man  worked  on  from  day  to  day, 

Watching  the  grain  from  hopper  to  sieve, 
And  for  a  lifetime  spent  in  that  way 

It  was  flowery  enough  for  any  to  live. 
For  the  cows  and  the  pigs,  and  the  colts  and  the  sheep, 
That  would  feed  on  the  hillside  or  lazily  sleep 
Under  the  boughs  of  the  spreading  trees, 
And  that  row  of  hives  with  their  humming  bees, 
And  the  corn  that  grew  in  the  further  lot, 
And  the  sunflowers  tall  that  lined  the  walk 
To  the  spring  that  welled  from  the  old  gray  rock, 
And  the  children  that  clambered  upon  his  knee, 
Boisterous  with  mirth  and  innocent  glee, 
\Vere  his,  all  told  ;  could  he  ask  for  more 
To  add  its  weight  to  his  bountiful  store  ? 
Well,  the  miller  worked  on  from  day  to  day, 
As  free  from  care  as  his  babes  at  play  ; 
And  the  brook  still  flowed  in  its  usual  way  ; 
And  music  sweet,  like  the  miller's  song, 
Made  cheery  echoes  the  whole  day  long. 
And  everything  seemed  to  be  taking  part 
In  the  roundelay  of  his  merry  heart, 
Just  as  everything  wears  a  smile,  you  know, 
When  we  are  happy  and  see  them  so. 


1 64  DRIFTWOOD. 

Amid  the  din  of  the  dusty  town, 

Lived  in  princely  splendor  a  millionaire, 
With  his  wife,  a  lady  of  this  renown, 

For  queenly  beauty  was  none  so  fair. 

But  gold  and  glitter  and  queenly  bride 

Were  as  empty  bubbles  that  float  on  air, 

For  princes  will  starve  if  fed  on  pride, 

And  so  will  the  heart  of  a  millionaire. 

So,  tired  of  the  din  of  the  crowded  town, 
And  loving  the  quiet  of  nature's  ways, 

And  sick  of  the  chill  of  his  lady's  frown, 

Viewed  under  the  mask  where  beauty  plays, 

He  wandered  oft  where  the  cooling  shade 
Flung  a  darker  green  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

And  often  paused  where  the  brook  was  stayed 
To  turn  the  wheel  of  the  gray  old  mill. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  why,"  said  the  millionaire, 
"Your  life  is  ever  so  blithe  and  gay  ? 

For  your  happy  heart  and  rustic  fare 

I  would  give  my  untold  wealth  to-day." 


SONG  STORY  FOR   THE  LITTLE  ONES.  165 

"  Heyday  !  "  said  the  man,  with  right  good  will, 

As  he  doffed  his  cap  to  the  millionaire, 
"  My  thanks  are  first  to  my  busy  mill, 

For  it  feeds  the  sources  of  all  my  care. 

"It  gives  me  labor,  and  that  is  wealth  ; 

These  sinewy  arms  are  mines  of  gold ; 
My  cot  is  aglow  with  ruddy  health, 

And  virtue  and  love  are  never  old. 

' '  So  all  of  the  world  was  made  for  me, 

And  I  am  akin  to  all  that  lives, 
And  whether  I  whistle  to  bird  or  tree, 

It  always  echoes  what  my  heart  gives." 

The  miller  paused,  but  the  millionaire 

A  lesson  had  learned  of  priceless  worth, 

That  the  hidden  springs  of  happiness  are 

In  the  heart's  pure  fountain  that  gives  them  birth. 

And  now  remember,  my  little  pets, 

That  life  isn't  always  what  it  seems  ; 
And  never  murmur  with  vain  regrets, 

Though  you  fail  to  attain  your  golden  dreams. 


!66  DRIFTWOOD. 

For  happiness  lies  in  the  reach  of  all, 

And  to  give  of  goodness  will  make  it  ours  ; 
And  if  the  shadows  and  tempests  fall, 

They  but  bring  us  the  odor  of  broken  flowers. 

MANKATO,  MINNESOTA,  April,  1866. 
R.  P.  Journal,  Chicago. 


THE  BA  TTLE  OF  SHIPS  ON  MOBILE  BAY.         167 


THE    BATTLE    OF    SHIPS    ON    MOBILE    BAY,    ON 
AUGUST  5,  1864. 

FAIR  as  a  dream  of  Alhambra  lay 
Along  the  horizon  a  line  of  gray, 
As  morning  crept  softly  o'er  placid  bay. 

The  air  was  balmy  with  sweet  incense 

Which  ravished  the  shore  with  perfume  intense, 

For  its  torpor  and  heat  a  recompense. 

Laden  with  odors  from  orange  trees, 
Came  only  a  sigh  of  the  lightest  breeze, 
To  quiver  the  breast  of  the  summer  seas, 

Like  the  smile  that  ushers  prophetic  gloom, 
As  calm  that  presages  the  dread  simoom, 
The  song  of  the  phoenix  triumphant  in  doom. 

While  yet  the  morn's  first  pennons  play, 

The  fleet  already  is  under  way 

For  the  famous  battle  on  Mobile  Bay. 


1 68  DRIFTWOOD. 

Girded  together  and  two  abreast, 
Octorora  and  Brooklyn  leading  the  rest, 
Forward  in  line  on  the  enemy  pressed. 

Boom  !  over  the  waters  the  first  report, 

The  enemy's  challenge  comes  from  the  fort ; 

And,  boom  !  comes  the  enemy's  quick  retort. 

Gun  answers  to  gun  in  quick  return, 
Vomiting  fire  ;  from  stem  to  stern 
The  ships  seem  in  livid  flame  to  burn. 

Wildly  the  red-lipped  cannons  shriek, 
Fixed  is  the  bronzed  old  Admiral's  cheek, 
Command  and  courage  his  firm  lips  speak. 

On,  on,  the  marshalled  mariners  sped 
Through  the  hot  hail  of  fire  and  lead, 
Tecumseh,  with  Cramer,  this  time  ahead. 

' '  Hard  a-starboard  !  "  commanded  he, 
And  dashed  straight  on  to  the  Tennessee ; 
Oh,  God  !  what  a  sight  was  that  to  see  ! 

Shaken  as  if  by  an  earthquake  shock, 

Riven  as  if  by  a  sunken  rock, 

A  hidden  torpedo  midway  she'd  struck. 


THE  BA  T7"LE  OF  SHIPS  ON  MOBILE  BA  Y.         169 
Headforemost  plunging-  with  all  her  brave ; 
And  Craven,  while  trying  his  pilot  to  save, 
A  hero  went  down  in  the  pitiless  wave. 

Point  Mobile,  a  living  line  of  flame, 

Red  as  the  fires  of  Hades  became, 

But  the  command  kept  steadily  on  the  same. 

Shrapnel  and  canister,  shell  and  grape, 
*  Riddled  with  seam  and  many  a  gape  ; 
What  from  destruction  could  hope  to  escape  ? 

But  what  was  the  thunder  of  shot  and  shell  ? 
What  were  the  fires  of  that  threatening  hell  ? 
His  was  to  do,  and  to  do  it  well. 

And  out  of  that  day  of  smoke  and  flame 
Rose  many  a  hero's  honored  name, 
And  gave  to  the  Admiral  added  fame. 

For  victory  followed  their  deeds  that  day, 
Who  followed  where  Farragut  led  the  way, 
In  that  battle  of  ships  on  Mobile  Bay. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL.,  May  3,  1883. 


DRIFTWOOD. 


AUTOGRAPH   LINES.* 

SINCE  scores  of  friends  indite  the  muse, 

In  poesy  to  greet  you, 
Though  mine  can  never  fill  their  shoes, 

And  limping  goes  to  meet  you  ; 

Though  others  drink  the  choicest  wine     . 

To  you  in  pledges  vernal, 
Whose  friendships  are  more  close  than  mine, 

Though  none  the  more  eternal, 

Accept  at  least  one  wish  sincere, 

Though  silent  its  expression, 
Unless  the  angel  of  good  cheer 

Inspire  you  by  impression  : 

Believe  at  least,  though  prone  to  sin, — 
You  know  sin  came  through  woman, — 

No  heart  e'er  beat  a  breast  within 

More  true  to  all  that's  human. 
*  Impromptu,  Album,  Wm.  M.  Ryder,  San  Francisco,  Nov.  1881. 


DEDICA  TION,   WASHING  TON  HA LL.  171 

DEDICATION,  WASHINGTON  HALL. 

BY    LINCOLN    POST,     G.    A.    R. 

HAIL  !   comrades  of  the  loyal  host, 

Who  wear  the  badge  of  honor, 
Who,  faithful  to  the  nation's  trust, 

When  treason  sat  upon  her, 
Took  up  the  armor  of  defense, 

Unswervingly  to  wear  it, 
To  break  the  sword  that  gave  offense, 
And  tame  the  traitor  spirit  ! 
So  here's  a  toast 
To  Lincoln  Post, 
We'll  pledge  it  every  one  ; 
Heaven  prosper  all, 
And  bless  the  hall, 
We  name  for  Washington. 

Here  oft  on  memory's  well-fought  field, 

With  riddled  banners  flying, 
Will  scattered  foes  retreat  and  yield 

Their  captured  dead  and  dying. 


172  DRIFTWOOD. 

For  time  shall  make  these  walls  replete 

With  many  a  thrilling  story, 
Which  aging  veterans  repeat 
Of  anguish  and  of  glory. 

So  here's  a  toast 

To  Lincoln  Post, 
We'll  pledge  it  every  one  ; 

Heaven  prosper  all 

And  bless  the  hall 
We  name  for  Washington. 

Here  pictured  be  the  hallowed  past, 

In  memory's  rehearsal, 
As  echoes  on  our  dreams  are  cast, 

Successes  or  reversal. 
Bivouacked  on  the  tented  plain, 

The  camp  fires  smoldering  glimmer, 
With  tramping  armies  through  the  rain, 
The  lines  of  bayonets  shimmer. 
So  here's  a  toast 
To  Lincoln  Post, 
WV11  pledge  it  every  one  ; 
Heaven  prosper  all, 
And  bless  the  hall, 
Wre  name  for  Washington. 


DEDICATION,   WASHINGTON  HALL.  173 

The  picket  and  the  skirmish  line, 

That  fluid  in  canteens,  boys  ! 
The  forage,  and  the  countersign, 

The  mess  of  pork  and  beans,  boys  ! 
The  contraband,  the  ambulance, 
The  song  and  dance  and  juba, 
The  rebel  matron's  scornful  glance, 
The  "Glory  hallelujah." 
So  here's  a  toast 
To  Lincoln  Post, 
We'll  pledge  it  every  one  ; 
Heaven  prosper  all, 
And  bless  the  hall, 
We  name  for  Washington. 

And  sweetly  still  those  oft-told  tales 

Their  text  will  be  repeating  ; 
Nor  lost  until  remembrance  fails 

To  bring  her  welcome  greeting. 
Whatever  the  chances  to  forget, 

Some  note  will  still  remind  ye, 
Some  cherished  chord  make  dearer  yet 

"The  girl  I  left  behind  me." 


174  DRIFT  WO  OD. 

So  here's  a  toast 

To  Lincoln  Post, 
We'll  pledge  it  every  one ; 

Heaven  prosper  all, 

And  bless  the  hall, 
We  name  for  Washington. 

We'll  pledge  anew  our  cause  to-night, 

Renew  the  grip  fraternal, 
God  and  our  country  in  the  right  ! 

Be  loyalty  eternal  ! 
May  charity,  that  star  most  fair 

Of  all  the  constellation, 
Bless  with  her  all-protecting  care 
The  saviors  of  the  nation. 
So  here's  a  toast 
To  Lincoln  Post, 
We'll  pledge  it  every  one  ; 
Heaven  prosper  all, 
And  bless  the  hall, 
We  name  for  Washington. 


THORNS  INTERTWINE  THE  CROWN  OF  BAY.     175 


THORNS  INTERTWINE  THE  CROWN  OF  BAY. 

O  BLEEDING  feet  that  steadfast  climb 

The  toilsome  heights  that  rise  afar  ! 
O  sleepless  eyes  whose  light  sublime 

Pales  not  the  reflex  of  the  star 
Whose  torch  through  night  trails  up  the  mom  ! 

O  suppliant  hands  that  clasp  for  aye  ! 
O  hearts  with  vigils  racked  and  torn  ! 

Pierced  is  the  brow  that  wears  the  Bay. 

He  may  not  reap  the  golden  grain, 

Too  late  his  sickle  for  the  sheaf, 
Nor  feel  the  cooling  plash  of  rain, 

Where  burning  sands  invoke  relief. 
He  may  not  pause  where  pleasures  lure, 

Nor  youth  renew  where  children  play, 
But  ever  on  with  purpose  sure 

Pursue,  whose  brow  would  wear  the  Bay. 


176  DRIFTWOOD. 

He  hears  the  cooling  waters  drip 

Down  rocky  basins,  deep  and  cool, 
Nor  slakes  the  fever  of  his  lip 

Beside  the  summer-verdured  pool. 
No  moss-grown  bank  beguiles  his  rest, 

He  may  not  note  the  nestling's  lay, 
Nor  pause  to  clasp  a  maiden's  breast, 

Thorns  so  entwine  the  crown  of  Bay. 

He  may  not  quaff  the  festive  bowl, 

'Mid  flowing  wit  and  merry  jest, 
But  he  must  heed  the  trumpet's  call, 

And  nerve  his  arm  to  greater  zest, 
Nor  stay  the  tide  on  weltering  field 

Of  carnage  red,  where  brothers  slay, 
To  grave  his  name  on  glory's  shield, 

And  wear  the  blood-stained  crown  of  Bay. 


For  him  envenomed  tongues  distill 

Their  viperous  breath,  to  blight  and  curse, 

With  maledictions  loud  and  shrill 

His  noblest  deeds  would  fain  reverse  ; 


THORNS  INTERTWINE  THE  CROWN  OF  BAY.     177 

But  happy  he,  whate'er  the  cost, 

When  stars  light  up  his  closing  day, 

Whose  shield  denotes  no  honor  lost 
That  he  might  wear  the  crown  of  Bay. 

High  as  the  overarching  bars 

That  gird  the  ever-widening  skies, 
Far-reaching  as  the  eternal  stars, 

O  soul,  for  fame's  imperial  prize, 
O'er  rocks  and  deserts'  boundless  sands, 

Through  haunted  caves  obscured  of  day, 
Famished,  unfed,  on  bounteous  lands, 

Death  brings  at  last  the  immortal  Bay. 

O'erwrought  and  toilful  to  the  end, 

Sowing  for  other  hands  to  reap  ; 
Soul-hungering  for  a  faithful  friend, 

Unmourned,  at  last,  to  rest  and  sleep. 
A  century — and  his  resting-place 

Denotes  his  worth  in  tardy  praise  ; 
A  benefactor  to  his  race, 

A  saint  in  marble,  crowned  with  Bays. 

Argus,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  Christmas,  1891. 

12 


178  DRIFTWOOD. 


INMEMORIAM.* 

FAREWELL  to  thee,  comrade  !     Death's  silence  is  over  thee ; 

Cold  is  the  hand  once  so  brave  to  defend 
The  emblem  whose  folds  now  so  tenderly  cover  thee  ; 
Peace  to  thee,  patriot,  comrade,  and  friend. 
All  of  life's  history, 
All  of  death's  mystery, 

And  all  that  the  triumph  of  waking  makes  known, 
Through  rest,  in  promotion,  at  last  is  thine  own. 

Farewell  to  thee,  comrade  !     Where  duty  was  known  to 

thee, 

Faithful  and  true  as  the  star  to  the  pole  ; 
What  was  life's  crucifix  leave  we  alone  to  thee  ; 
Only  the  angels  may  question  the  soul. 
Nature's  supreme  decree, — 
Death's  final  reveille, — 

Summons  thee  higher  and  gives  thee  release  ; 
Be  cherished  thy  memory ;  rest  thou  in  peace. 

*  Suggested  at  the  funeral  of  comrade  Capt.  C.  P.  Kelly,  San  Francisco, 
April,  1883. 


IN  MEMO  R I  AM.  1 7  9 

Farewell  to  thee,  comrade  !     Life's  battle  is  o'er  for  thee  ; 

Death  but  endears  what  it  cannot  restore ; 
Surely  eternity  holds  much  in  store  for  thee, 

Angels  make  welcome  whom  we  most  deplore. 
Close  in  with  rank  and  file, 
We,  too,  must  pass  erewhile, 

When  ripe  for  the  summons  that  none  can  foretell. 
Peace  to  thee,  comrade  !     Till  then  fare  thee  well. 


i8o  DRIFTWOOD. 


A  MODERN  PERL* 

ONE  morn  at  the  legislative  gate 

A  woman  stood  disconsolate, 

For  well  she  knew,  in  her  despair, 

That  none  of  her  sex  could  enter  there  ; 

Whate'er  her  grievance  or  great  her  wrong, 

The»lesser  must  yield  to  the  will  of  the  strong. 

Awhile  she  listened  to  the  din 

Of  arguments  that  clashed  within, 

Yet  all  with  good  intentions  tending, 

The  people's  honest  cause  befriending, 

And  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  gold  that  flowed 

From  the  people  taxed,  for  their  good  bestowed. 

"Alas  !  "  she  said,   "  it  is  awfully  hard 
From  these  rich  endowments  to  be  debarred." 
"  How  happy,"  she  thought,   "these  men  must  be, 
In  their  cushioned  chairs  and  abandon  free, 

*  An  impromptu  with  a  meaning,  during  the  legislature  of  1880.     Sacra 
mento  Bee* 


A  MODERN  PERL  181 

Well  fed  and  warmed."     And  yet  she  knew 
They  were  weary  with  too  much  nothing-  to  do. 
"Why  may  not  to  me  some  sweet  crumbs  fall? 
A  common  mother  created  us  all." 

The  august  Solons  heard  her  pleading 

For  the  orphaned  lives  that  wepe  interceding, 

Then  turned  away  with  crocodile  tear. 

"  Alas  !  no  woman  can  enter  here, 

At  least — unless — well,  hardly  any. 

You  see,  my  dear,  they  number  so  many. 

But  stay,"  he  cried,   "  one  chance  might  be  ; 

Put  in  your  claim  for  a  clerk,"  said  he. 

' '  Child  of  a  frail,  angelic  sex, 

To  aid  your  cause  we  would  break  our  necks." 

Then  a  partisan  imp  flew  down  from  the  wall, 
And  in  passing  gave  an  unearthly  squall. 
"  They  are  giving  you  taffy — he  !  he  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
I  wish  you  success.     Farewell,  ta-ta  !  " 

"  I'll  go,"  she  said,  "  to  the  richest  cavec 
In  the  sea  of  memory's  murmuring  waves. 
There's  a  pearl  wrought  out  of  a  grateful  tear, 
Down,  down  in  the  past  of  a  scarlet  year." 


182  DRIFTWOOD. 

So  lifting  the  wing-  of  a  speeding  thought, 

She  trembling  stood  by  the  hallowed  spot. 

On  a  smoking  field,  with  carnage  red, 

One  face  she  lifted,  her  loved  and  dead. 

"  See,  this  I  gave,  but  rest  thou  alone." 

Away  she  sped  to  a  dying  moan. 

And  a  smile  lit  up  the  parching  lips 

As  they  quaffed  the  cool  drink,  and  her  finger-tips 

Strayed  gently  over  his  fevered  head, 

Then  on  to  the  next,  and  to  each  she  said, 

"  God  bless  you,  boys,  and  the  mothers  of  men 

Who  made  you  so  noble.'"'     They  answered,  "Amen." 

"  See,  see  !  "  she  cried,  as  she  stood  at  the  gate 

Whose  hinges  turn  on  the  pivot  of  state — 

"  See,  here  is  blood  on  a  lock  of  hair, 

And  the  grateful  wish  of  a  loved  one's  prayer, 

Soldiers  restored  to  the  thinning  ranks." 

"  For  this  the  country  returns  you  thanks. 

Be  thus  contented,  for  that,  you  know," 

Said  the  senator  soldiery   "  was  long  ago. 

Some  other  tactics  you'll  have  to  try, 

Though  the  '  open  sesame '  be  very  nigh  ; 

Constituents  first,  and  men  that  live, 

Claim  all  the  positions  the  state  can  give. 


A  MODERN  PERI.  183 

Try  something  stronger  than  this,  my  dear  ; 
We're  bound  you  yet  shall  have  something  here. " 
And  one  of  them  said  with  a  knowing  wink, 
"We'll  tire  these  women  out  soon,  I  think." 
And  drawing  a  sigh  from  his  manly  breast, 
"  Oh,  shortly  these  women  will  give  us  a  rest !  " 
Yet  she  knew  as  she  scanned  the  beardless  faces 
Around  the  committees,  for  clerkship  places, 
That  they  would  be  voters  by  and  by. 
And  yet  again  she  said,   "  I'll  try  ;  " 
Though  she  knew,  whatever  the  promised  truce, 
Masculinity  cooketh  the  woman's  goose. 

Then  again  the  voice  with  unearthly  yell, 

"  Are  they  giving  you  taffy  again  ?     Well,  well." 

With  hopes  all  a-droop,  like  a  wet  mother  hen 

She  clucked  to  her  brood,  but,  alas  !  there  and  then 

She  learned  what  it  was  to  be  patient  and  wait, 

And  the  justice  that  comes  through  the  servants  of  state. 

Where  there's  no  inclination  there's  always  excuse, 

And  a  hopeful  refusal  is  less  than  abuse. 

But,  oh  !   to  be  told — we  are  all  of  us  human — 

"  If  you  want  to  be  favored,  why,  don't  be  a  woman  ; 


184  DRIFTWOOD. 

At  least  don't  grow  old.     Leave  us  with  the  laws. 
We'll  care  for  your  children  if  they  should  give  cause ; 
That's  why  we  have  prisons  and  courts  and  all  that, 
And  the  poor-house  for  you,  when   you're  old,  sick,  and 
flat." 

"  For  favors?     Why,  even  there's  value  in  blood, 
And  color  is  foremost,  as  is  well  understood. 
Go,  woman  !  content  to  look  over  the  wall, 
The  ballot  alone  ope's  the  doorway  to  all." 

Once  more  the  vulture,  with  mocking  shriek, 
Dropped  venom  from  his  gall-tipped  beak  : 
"Why  don't  you  do  as  the  millions  do — 
Give  back  the  taffy  they  give  to  you  ?  " 


MEMORIAL  POEM.  185 

MEMORIAL  POEM.* 

No.  i. 

SCATTER  the  garlands  of  roses, 

And  all  the  sweet  blossoms  of  May, 
Above  each  low  mound  that  encloses 

The  perishing-  patriot's  clay. 
They  who  went  out  in  the  glory 

Of  hope  and  the  rapture  of  life, 
To  fields  that  were  smoking  and  gory, 

And  were  foremost  to  lead  in  the  strife, 
Oh,  cover  them  tenderly  ;  over  them  all, 
Like  a  mantle  of  love,  let  the  sweet  blossoms  fall. 

They  were  the  truest  of  brothers, 

They  were  the  bravest  of  men  ; 
And  the  pride  of  the  Roman  mothers 

Was  blessed  in  our  sons  again. 
For  what  was  the  smoke  of  battle 

Or  the  thrust  of  sabre  or  sword, 

*  Read  by  Miss  O'Brien,  the  elocutionist,  Memorial  Day  and  also  even 
ing,  May  31,  1880,  Sacramento,  Cal. 


186  DRIFTWOOD. 

The  cannon's  or  musketry's  rattle, 

To  national  honor  restored  ? 
Then  cover  them  tenderly  ;  over  them  all, 
Like  a  mantle  of  love,  let  the  sweet  blossoms  fall. 

Guarding  the  dangerous  passes, 

With  never  a  heart  dismayed, 
Down  by  the  poison  morasses, 

Where  pestilence  indolent  stayed, 
Down  by  the  turbulent  river, 

And  marching-  on  to  the  sea, 
Yet  guarding-  the  colors  forever, 

Whatever  the  danger  might  be. 
Then  cover  them  tenderly  ;  over  them  all, 
Like  a  mantle  of  love,  let  the  sweet  blossoms  fall. 

See  what  they  gave  us  in  dying  ! 

O  banner  undimmed  of  your  stars, 
The  grasses  above  where  they're  lying, 

Oh,  kiss  with  the  sweep  of  your  bars, 
For  never  again  will  they  wake  them, 

Or  recall  them  to  duty  or  pain. 
Let  our  gratitude  never  forsake  them, 

Who  sleep  'neath  the  dew  and  the  rain. 


MEMORIAL  POEM.  187 

But  cover  them  tenderly  ;  over  them  all, 
Like  a  mantle  of  love,  let  the  sweet  blossoms  fall. 

Over  the  clustering  tresses 

On  brows  that  were  white  as  the  snow, 
On  lips  that  some  memory  kisses, 

So  speechless  and  silent  below, 
Hands  we  have  clasped  so  tightly, 

Arms  so  protecting  and  brave, 
Prized  we  not  all  too  lightly, 

Till  hid  by  the  pitiless  grave  ? 
Then  cover  them  tenderly  ;  over  them  all, 
Like  a  mantle  of  love,  let  the  sweet  blossoms  fall. 

In  the  star-fretted  evening,  often, 

When  the  night  with  her  gems  is  set, 
Sad  mem'ries  our  hearts  will  soften, 

Of  comrades  we  cannot  forget  ; 
And  we'll  weep  for  the  manly  graces, 

Lying  under  the  silent  clay, 
And  weep  for  the  tear-stained  faces, 

They  left  when  they  went  away. 
Then  cover  them  tenderly  ;  over  them  all, 
Like  a  mantle  of  love,  let  the  sweet  blossoms  fall. 


1 88  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  millions  of  duskier  faces, 

Forever  above  their  graves, 
Will  bless  these,  while  history  traces 

They  died  to  make  men  of  slaves. 
Then  let  us  rejoice,  for  the  angel 

Who  laurels  the  deeds  of  worth 
Hath  sent  us  a  nation's  evangel, 

And  peace  is  again  upon  earth. 
Then  cover  them  tenderly  ;  over  them  all, 
Like  a  mantle  of  love,  let  the  sweet  blossoms  fall. 

For  the  grandest  of  nations  no  longer 

With  the  spirit  of  anger  is  rife  ; 
And  each  year  shall  be  riveted  stronger, 

The  hearts  that  were  foes  in  the  strife. 
And  at  last  when  the  final  muster 

Calls  each  to  the  ramparts  above, 
Around  him  his  comrades  will  cluster, 

With  charity,  friendship,  and  love. 
Then  cover  them  tenderly  ;  over  them  all, 
Like  a  mantle  of  love,  let  the  sweet  blossoms  fall. 


MEMORIAL  POEM.  189 


MEMORIAL  POEM. 

No.   2.* 

SCATTER  above  them  the  garlands  of  blossoms, 

And  laurel  them  all,  these  dead  heroes  of  ours. 
So  still  are  the  hands  that  are  crossed  on  the  bosoms 

Of  those  who  lie  sleeping  beneath  the  bright  flowers. 
How  brave  were  their  hearts  when  in  peril  the  nation 

Was  tossed  on  the  waves  of  dissension  and  death, 
And  war's  crimson  hand  scattered  wild  desolation, 
Bringing  terror  and  woe  on  the  South's  sultry  breath. 
Then  tenderly  down  on  the  grass  and  the  clover 
Scatter  the  blossoms  and  cover  them  over, 
Father,  and  brother,  and  husband,  and  lover. 

*  Written  for  and  read  Memorial  Day  services,  Opera  House,  San 
Francisco,  Cal.,  May  31,  1880. 


190  DRIFTWOOD. 

Cover  the  forms  we  had  hopefully  cherished, 

Hands  we  have  clasped  in  love's  tender  embrace; 
Oh  !  we  grieve  that  our  darlings  so  early  have  perished 

In  the  pride  of  their  manhood,  their  beauty,  and  grace. 
Oh,  the  beautiful  curls  and  the  soft  sunny  tresses, 
Mouldering1  and  damp  with  the  blight  of  decay  ! 
Lips  cold  and  still  some  sweet  memory  presses, 
Again  their  sweet  smiles  o'er  the  ruby  curves  play. 
Then  tenderly  down  on  the  grass  and  the  clover 
Scatter  the  blossoms  and  cover  them  over, 
Father,  and  brother,  and  husband,  and  lover. 

Beautiful  eyes  we  so  loved  are  forever 

Shut  out  from  the  light  and  the  glory  of  day, 
And  we  weep  as  they  wept  at  the  parting,  for  never 

Will  the  shadow  and  blight  on  our  hearts  pass  away. 
Oh,  long  were  the  years  to  lie  silent  and  lonely, 

If  death  were  the  sequel  to  duty  and  pain. 
And  for  us  they  have  died,  for  such  recompense  only 
As  falls  to  the  heroes  who  die  not  in  vain. 

Then  tenderly  down  on  the  grass  and  the  clover 
Scatter  the  blossoms  and  cover  them  over, 
Father,  and  brother,  and  husband,  and  lover. 


MEMORIAL  POEM.  191 

Blanched  were  the  cheeks  of  the  mothers  who  bore  them, 

When  the  clarion  of  duty  called  their  sons  to  the  fray, 
But  never  their  prayers  to  their  breasts  can  restore  them, 

Who  thus  in  their  manhood  were  summoned  away. 
Like  the  mothers  of  Sparta,  their  anguish  defying, 

They  laid  the  bright  sword  on  the  national  shield, 
And  bade  them  be  brave,  though  the  leaden  hail  flying 
In  death-dealing  terror  swept  over  the  field. 

Then  tenderly  down  on  the  grass  and  the  clover 
Scatter  the  blossoms  and  cover  them  over, 
Father,  and  brother,  and  husband,  and  lover. 

May  forever  unsullied  the  banner  float  o'er  them, 

Who  shed  their  red  blood  for  the  red  of  its  bars  ; 
Oh,  proud  be  the  folds  that  in  battle  upbore  them, 

To  save  from  dishonor,  who  died  for  its  stars, 
And  long  may  the  nation  her  flowers  above  them, 

Begem  with  her  laurels  each  patriot's  grave, 
And  gratefully  prove  that  we  honor  and  love  them, 
Whose  lives  paid  the  forfeit  a  million  to  save. 
Then  tenderly  down  on  the  grass  and  the  clover 
Scatter  the  blossoms  and  cover  them  over, 
Father,  and  brother,  and  husband,  and  lover. 


192  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  for  those  sadly  lost  with  the  nameless  and  missing, 

Where  no  hand  can  scatter  love's  tribute  to-day, 
A  monument  build  in  your  hearts  filled  with  blessing, 

And  forget-me-nots  twine  in  the  chaplet  of  bay. 
For  white  are  their  deeds  who,  as  shoulder  to  shoulder, 

Go  down  in  the  fury  of  merciless  wars  ; 
And  white  was  the  angel  who  summoned  the  soldier 
Whose  muster  records  him  among  the  bright  stars. 
Then  tenderly  down  on  the  grass  and  the  clover 
Scatter  the  blossoms  and  cover  them  over, 
Father,  and  brother,  and  husband,  and  lover. 

But  the  Bethlehem  star  of  our  nation  has  risen, 

And  peace  spreads  again  the  white  fleece  of  her  wing; 
No  more  o'er  the  plains  shall  the  batteries  glisten, 

And  the  war  cry,  "To  arms  !  "  down  the  broken  lines  ring. 
And  they  who  were  bravest  where  duty  was  calling, 

Are  first  after  peace  to  be  brothers  again. 
And  proud  over  all  is  our  flag  softly  falling, 

Where  freedom  and  peace  o'er  a  happy  land  reign. 
Then  tenderly  down  on  the  grass  and  the  clover 
Scatter  the  blossoms  and  cover  them  over, 
Father,  and  brother,  and  husband,  and  lover. 


MEMORIAL  POEM.  193 

And  we  know  when  at  last  over  life's  fretful  ocean, 

The  shadow  of  night  o'er  each  veteran  falls, 
And  the  angel  above  gives  to  valor  promotion, 
And  to  Death's  final  muster  the  patriot  calls, 
That  marshalled  a-near  in  the  ether  to  greet  them, 

With  " Abraham"  leading  the  armies  above, 
Their  glorified  comrades  will  cluster  to  meet  them 
With  charity,  friendship,  and  brotherly  love. 

Then  tenderly  down  on  the  grass  and  the  clover 
Scatter  the  blossoms  and  cover  them  over, 
Father   and  brother,  and  husband,  and  lover. 


DRIFTWOOD. 


MEMORIAL  POEM. 
No.   3. 

AH  !  we  sadly  remember  that  star-fretted  morning, 
When  only  a  cloud  swept  athwart  the  pale  east, 
Yet  e'er  midday  was  muttered  a  nation's  wild  warning, 

And  at  sunset  with  gloom  all  our  sky  overcast. 
For  flash  upon  flash,  and  with  voice  of  the  thunder, 

A  challenge  from  Sumter,  with  death  on  the  air, 
Gave  never  a  moment  to  pause  or  to  wonder, 

The  three  hundred  thousand  equipped  for  the  war. 
Droop  softly  and  low  o'er  the  mounds  below, 
Flag  of  our  country  and  lilies  of  snow  ; 
Kiss  the  green  grasses  that  over  them  grow. 

Brave  were  the  hearts  of  the  wives  and  the  mothers, 
Who  gave  up  their  dearest,  their  husbands  and  sons  ; 

Ah  !  they  were  the  truest,  the  grandest  of  brothers 
That  e'er  faced  an  enemy's  threatening  guns. 


MEMORIAL  POEM.  195 

They  were  the  pride  of  our  homes  and  the  nation, 

Stalwart  of  heart  as  their  patriot  sires 
Who  defended  the  right  against  foreign  dictation, 
When  the  old  "  Revolution  "  had  kindled  her  fires. 
Droop  softly  and  low  o'er  the  mounds  below, 
Flag  of  our  country  and  lilies  of  snow  ; 
Kiss  the  green  grasses  that  over  them  grow. 

Oh,  the  long  weary  months  of  suspense  and  of  waiting, 

Of  praying,  of  fearing,  of  absence  and  tears  ; 
Through  the  vigils  of  night,  with  a  faith  unabating, 

Till  the  anguish  of  months  made  the  compass  of  years. 
And  many  with  hopeful  good-by  at  the  parting 
Came  nevermore  back  to  our  bosoms  again. 
\Vhere  they  fell  on  the  field  are  the  wild  grasses  starting  ; 
Where  they  sleep  fall  the  dews  and  the  summer-time 

rain. 

Droop  softly  and  low  o'er  the  mounds  below, 
Flag  of  our  country  and  lilies  of  snow  ; 
Kiss  the  green  grasses  that  over  them  grow. 

O  beautiful  eyes  on  whose  lids  are  forever 

The  kiss  and  the  tears  and  the  mildew  of  death, 


196  DRIFTWOOD. 

From  your  home  with   the   stars  do  you  watch  for  us 

never  ? 
Do  your  lips  never  speak   in   some  sweet    blossom's 

breath  ? 

Oh,  they  sleep  yet  they  rest  not,  for  over  and  over 
They  walk  by  our  side  in  the  land  of  our  dreams, 
And  softly  as  falleth  the  dew  011  the  clover 

Or  the  shimmer  of  stars  on  the  bosom  of  streams. 
Droop  softly  and  low  o'er  the  mounds  below, 
Flag  of  our  country  and  lilies  of  snow  ; 
Kiss  the  green  grasses  that  over  them  grow. 

And  sometimes  the  touch  of  these  perishing  fingers, 

Now  pulseless  and  cold  on  the  bosoms  below, 
Seems  clasped  with  our  own,  while  fond  memory  lingers 

Like  the  perfume  of  violets  under  the  snow. 
And  sometime  we  know  that  our  eyes  shall  behold  them 

When  the  summers  and  winters  are  over  and  gone, 
In  the  land  of  hereafter  our  arms  shall  enfold  them, 
Where  death  never  takes  from  our  bosoms  our  own. 
Droop  softly  and  low  o'er  the  mounds  below, 
Flag  of  our  country  and  lilies  of  snow  ; 
Kiss  the  green  grasses  that  over  them  grow. 


MEMORIAL  POEM.  197 

Year  after  year  how  the  comrades  are  passing 

The  river  of  mists  to  the  shadowy  land, 
And  white  are  the  feet  that  while  evermore  crossing 
Leave  naught  but  their  print  on  the  desolate  sand, 
Till  all  shall  be  gone  but  a  legend,  a  story, 

The  sword  of  the  grandsire,  a  rusted  carbine, 
A  uniform  covered  with  dust  and  with  glory, 
In  the  garret  a  knapsack  and  soldier's  canteen. 
Droop  softly  and  low  o'er  the  mounds  below, 
Flag  of  our  country  and  lilies  of  snow  ; 
Kiss  the  green  grasses  that  over  them  grow. 

And  white  are  the  plains  where  bivouac  the  angels 

Whom  Death  on  his  roll-call  has  mustered  on  high, 
Where  picketed  still  are  the  nation's  evangels, 

The  vanguard  that  guides  on  our  march  to  the  sky. 
And  at  last  when  each  veteran's  name  for  promotion 

Is  called  to  advance  with  the  last  countersign, 
The  angel  on  guard,  for  heroic  devotion, 

Will  bid  him  "fall  in  "  with  the  heavenly  line. 

Droop  softly  and  low  o'er  the  mounds  below, 
Flag  of  our  country  and  lilies  of  snow  ; 
Kiss  the  green  grasses  that  over  them  grow. 


198  DRIFTWOOD. 

So  let  the  children  of  soldiers  spread  o'er  them 

A  mantle  of  blooms,  and  bedew  with  their  tears 
The  graves  of  the  heroes  who,  in  valor  before  them, 

Gave  to  country  their  lives  to  win  freedom  for  theirs. 
Then  gratefully  let  us  remember  and  cover 

With  flowers  and  the  folds  of  our  banner's  bright  bars 
The  graves  of  the  sire  and  the  son  and  the  lover, 
Who  died  for  mankind  and  the  union  of  stars. 

Droop  softly  and  low  o'er  the  mounds  below, 
Flag  of  our  country  and  lilies  of  snow  ; 
Kiss  the  green  grasses  that  over  them  grow. 

SACRAMENTO,  CAL.,  May  31,  1881. 


CHA  NCELL  ORS  V2LLE.  1 99 

CHANCELLORSVILLE. 

(KEENAN'S  THREE  HUNDRED.*) 

IN  the  deepening  gloom  of  the  forest  of  pine, 
Three  hundred  horsemen  were  stirrupped  in  line. 
Here  were  the  batteries,  broken  and  routed  ; 
Dismayed,  panic-stricken,  the  wild  rabble  shouted. 

*  It  was  one  of  those  tragic  episodes  of  the  war  at  Chancellorsville 
when  sunset  found  our  army  badly  confused  and  disorganized  and  driven 
wildly  along  its  center.  General  Sickles'  battery  and  General  Pleasan- 
ton's  cavalry  were  nearly  a  mile  away  and  were  not  in  order,  but  were 
"  parked  "  awaiting  orders.  And  General  Howard's  Eleventh  Corps  were 
completely  surprised.  On  came  Stonewall  Jackson's  immense  corps, 
pursuing  the  fugitives  of  infantry,  artillery,  ambulance,  pack  mules,  ne 
groes,  and  stragglers.  Nearer  and  nearer  through  the  woods  came  the 
Confederates'  yell  and  the  rush  of  Jackson's  victorious  legions,  twenty 
thousand  strong.  General  Fleasanton,  riding  in  front  of  the  guns,  saw 
that  delay  was  the  only  way  to  prevent  our  utter  demolition,  and  he  gave 
to  Major  Keenan,  who  rode  at  the  head  of  three  hundred  horsemen,  the 
order  so  fatal  to  him,  yet  which  alone  saved  the  day.  Said  he,  "  Major, 
you  must  charge  into  those  woods  with  your  men  and  hold  the  enemy  in 
check  till  I  get  these  guns  in  position.  You  must  do  it  at  all  costs." 
Keenan  replied,  "  It's  the  same  as  saying  you  must  be  killed,"  but  with 
a  smile  he  added,  "  General,  I'll  do  it."  They  made  the  charge,  delayed 
Stonewall  Jackson's  famous  corps  until  Sickles'  came  up  with  reinforce 
ments,  and  the  day  was  saved. 


200  DRIFTWOOD. 

Artillery,  infantry,  maddened  by  fright, 
Confused  and  disordered,  took  refuge  in  flight. 
Commands  out  of  order  were  given  at  random, 
Ambulance,  pack-mule,  and  stragglers  in  tandem, 
'Mid  thunders  of  cannon  and  shrieking  of  shell, 
The  fugitives  flying,  the  Confederates'  yell, 
The  smoke  and  the  carnage,  the  impress  of  hell, 
They  rode  as  never  men  rode  before, 
Rider  and  horse,  to  return  no  more! 
They  bravely  rode  and  they  bravely  fell, 
At  the  close  of  that  day  at  Chancellorsville 

Flashed  and  shimmered  the  grand  display, 
The  gleam  of  sabre  and  bayonet's  play, 
Along  the  sunset  a  line  of  gray, 
Of  the  legion,  less  than  a  mile  away. 
Twenty  thousand  followed  the  lead 
Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  silvered  head, 
As  hurrying  fast  and  hurrying  faster, 
To  make  more  sure  our  dire  disaster, 
Pressing  closely  upon  us  then, 
Like  a  wall  of  death,  came  Stonewall's  men. 
To  meet  them,  as  never  men  rode  before, 
Rider  and  horse,  to  return  no  more  ; 


CHANCELLORSVILLE.  201 

Undaunted  they  rode  who  so  nobly  fell 
At  the  close  of  that  day  at  Chancellorsville. 

Then  suddenly  forward,  in  front  of  the  guns, 

Rode  stern,  brave  General  Pleasanton. 

"Align  those  pieces,"  commanded  he.    . 

Oh  for  time  to  impede  that  human  sea 

E'er  it  sweeps  us  down  ! — but  an  hour's  delay 

To  rally  in  order  !     It  would  save  the  day. 

Delay  we  must  the  advancing  host, 

Engage  their  column  or  all  is  lost. 

Too  late  to  reckon  the  terrible  cost, 

They  rode  as  never  men  rode  before, 
Rider  and  horse,  to  return  no  more  ; 
They  rode  to  death,  but  they  glorious  fell 
At  the  close  of  that  day  at  Chancellorsville. 

Three  hundred  brave  horsemen  Keenan  led. 
"Charge  into  those  woods,"  the  General  said. 
"Whatever  the  cost  to  your  noble  head, 
Keep  them  in  check  till  we  right  our  guns." 
Through  his  veins  the  blood  of  a  hero  runs. 
One  moment,  a  flash  of  his  eagle  eye, 
Then  his  brow  reflected  the  sunset  sky 


202  DRIFTWOOD. 

As  he  bared  it,  responsive  to  the  command. 

Then  with  a  sweep  of  his  manly  hand, 

"  I'll  do  it,  General !     It  is  only  to  die  ! 

But  where  duty  calls  loudest  there  ever  am  I." 
They  rode  as  never  men  rode  before, 
Rider  and  horse  to  return  no  more, 
Keenan's  three  hundred,  who  grandly  fell 
At  the  close  of  that  day  at  Chancellorsville. 

All  honor  to  those  who,  thus  quick  to  obey, 

To    their    death    hurried   forward   and   saved   us   the 

clay. 

Glory  has  known  other  heroes  before, 
But  bravery  was  never  deserving  of  more. 
They    died,     yet     they    live    in    the    nation's    warm 

heart  ; 
On   the   tablets    she    notes    they    have    graven    their 

part, 

And  the  star  that  most  radiant  evermore  keeps 
Bright  vigil  above  where  a  patriot  sleeps. 
And    remembrance    each  season  fresh    chaplets    will 

bind, 

Till  our  feet,  marching  on  to  that  city,  shall  find 
The  heroes  who  bravely  have  died  for  mankind. 


CHANCELLORSVILLE.  203 

With  those  who  rode  as  never  before, 
From  earth  to  eternity's  beautiful  shore, 
The  immortal  three  hundred  who  gallantly  fell 
At  the  close  of  that  day  at  Chancellorsville. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL.,  Feb.  15,  1883. 


204  DRIFTWOOD. 

THE  CHARGE  UPON  THE  HILL. 

NIGHTFALL  darkened  down  the  mountain,  stifled  seemed 

the  silent  air, 
Heavy  with  portending  omens  that   preceded   strife   of 

war. 
Moonbeams  pencilled  through  the  hollys,  shadowed  o'er 

the  river's  breast, 
As  the  troops  upon  the  hillside  stacked  their  arms  and 

went  to  rest. 

Midnight's  hour,  and  all  was  silent  as  the  garden  of  the 
dead, 

Save  the  watchword  of  the  sentries  pacing  on  with  meas 
ured  tread, 

And  the  rushing  of  the  river.  Slowly  up  the  smoke-cloud 
crept 

From  the  many  smoldering  camp-fires  ;  all  was  silent, 
nature  slept. 

Morning  came  ;    dread  consternation  spread  throughout 

the  circling  camp, 
And  the  distant  hills  reechoed  with  the  horseman's  heavy 

tramp. 


THE  CJIAKGE  UPON  THE  HILL.  205 

And  the  clanging  and  the  shouting  of  the  fast  approach 
ing  foe 

Thrilled  the  hearts  that  beat  for  freedom,  with  a  patriotic 
glow. 

On  they  came,  that  charge  of  horsemen  ;  fearful  raged 

the  deadly  strife, 
Till  the  river's  current,  ebbing,  seemed  a  tide  of  human 

life. 
Now    they   waver  !    now   they   rally  !  foot    to   foot    and 

hand  to  hand  ; 
Now  they  strike  those  rebel  colors  !  now  they  falter  ! — 

see,  they  run  ! 

Victory  !     Ah  !  we  have  conquered  ;  heroes,  ere  you  sink 

in  death, 
See  the  starry  emblem  triumph,  bless  it  with  your  dying 

breath  ! 
See  the  shattered  host  retreating,  how  they  scatter  as  they 

run  ! 
God  is  with  us  !   we  have  beat  them,  and  the  field  is  fairly 

won. 


206  DRIFTWOOD. 

Heaps  of  mangled  forms,  and  dying,  lay  upon  the  tram 
pled  sod  ; 

Heaps  of  breathless  forms  were  lying,  they  were  gathered 
home  to  God. 

Filling  up  the  gaping  trenches  with  the  foemeiVs  fallen 
dead, 

Where  the  panic-stricken  scattered,  where  they  left  them 
when  they  fled. 


One  among  the  fallen  heroes  crept  beneath  a  shadowy 

bough, 
And  the    death-dew  slowly  gathered   o'er   his  pale   and 

manly  brow, 
And  his  dying  eyes  grew  brighter  with  a  new  and  sudden 

light, 
As  the  memory  of  the  homestead  crowded  in  with  visions 

bright. 


And  his  husky  voice  grew  fainter,  sank  to  whispers  weak 

and  low  : 
"Comrade,  raise  me— I  am  going— feel  my  pulses,  how 

they  go ; 


THE  CHARGE  UPON  THE  HILL.  207 

Wet  my  lips — then  listen  to  me — for  my  strength  is  failing 

fast; 
Lay  your  palm  upon  my  forehead  till  this  fearful  pain  is 

past. 

"You  will  go  and  see  them,  won't  you?  " — then  his  eyes 

grew  dim  with  tears — 
"Tell  my  mother  I  would  gladly  comfort  all  her  failing 

years. 
But  the  leather  who  has  called  me  careth  for  a   lonely 

heart ; 
We  shall  meet  in  the  hereafter  where  the  loving  never 

part. 

"Many  others  on  the  altar  of  our  country's  cause  have 

laid 

Lives  as  precious  to  another  as  the  sacrifice  she  made. 
To  my  gray-haired  patriot  grandsire,  only  this  to  him  I'll 

say, 
Through  the  hottest  of  the  battle  I  have  bravely  fought 

to-day. 

"Tell  my  sister — give  me  water — tell  her  never  to  regret 
That  she  gave  her  soldier  brother — tell   her  I    did   not 
forget 


208  DRIFTWOOD. 

All  the  counsels  that  she  gave  me — oh,  she  tried  to  be  so 

brave, 
As  she  said,   '  I  fear,  my  brother,  you  will  fill  a  soldier's 

grave. ' 

"There's  another,  not  a  sister — closer  bend  your  face  to 

mine — 
It  is  Katie! — yes?  you  know  her — oh,  I  know  her  heart 

will  pine 
For  the  words  of  tender  meaning — she  was  fragile   as  a 

flower — 
Tell  her  that  I  kept  her  image  foremost,  even  in  the  battle 

hour. 

"  Raise   me   quick  !     I'm  sinking — fainting — and   I  long 

once  more  to  gaze 
Where  the  dear  old  starry  banner  o'er  the  field  triumphant 

sways. 
Farewell,   comrade  !  "     Then  a  quiver  shook   his  frame, 

and  all  was  still. 
And  they  laid  him  with  the  heroes  of  the  charge  upon  the 

nili. 


LONG  AGO.  209 


LONG  AGO. 

THERE'S  a  stream  whose  crystal  waters 

Lave  the  sands  of  golden  hue  ; 
There's  a  cottage  twined  with  roses, 

Spangled  o'er  with  morning  dew  ; 
There  the  summer-scented  clover 

And  the  violets  used  to  grow, 
When  the  feet  of  guileless  childhood 

Pressed  the  banks  of  long  ago. 

Long  ago  !  how  memory  lingers  ! 
Touched  again  by  angel  fingers 
Are  the  chords  that  sweetly  murmur 

Of  the  golden  long  ago,  long  ago. 

Eyes  that  beamed  with  loving  meaning, 
Hands  that  smoothed  our  couch  of  rest, 

Closed  to  look  no  more  upon  us, 
Folded  on  a  pulseless  breast. 


210  DRIFTWOOD. 

Like  the  drifting  flecks  of  shadow 

Where  the  water-lilies  grow, 
So  the  threads  of  silken  tresses 
Floated  from  us  long  ago. 

Long  ago  !  how  memory  lingers  ! 
Touched  again  by  angel  fingers 
Are  the  chords  that  sweetly  murmur 
Of  the  golden  long  ago,  long  ago. 

We  shall  cross  that  mystic  river, 

When  love's  partings  come  no  more ; 
We  shall  clasp  the  waiting  angels 

Of  the  loved  and  gone  before, 
By  and  by,  some  glad  to-morrow, 

When  life's  tide  shall  outward  flow, 
When  the  shadows  now  about  us 

Shall  be  with  the  long  ago. 

Long  ago  !  how  memory  lingers  ! 
Touched  again  by  angel  fingers 
Are  the  chords  that  sweetly  murmur 

Of  the  golden  long  ago,  long  ago. 

SPRINGFIELD,  OHIO,  1871. 


RECEPTION  TO  PAUL   VANDERVOORT.  211 


RECEPTION  TO  PAUL  VANDERVOORT,   GRAND 
COMMANDER,   G.  A.   R. 

THRICE  welcome  to  our  Golden  Gate, 

Our  comrade  and  commander. 
Proudly  the  tribute  of  our  state, 

In  welcome,  we  surrender. 

Much  claims  he  from  the  soldiers'  hearts  ; 

Worth  makes  the  comrade  dearer  ; 
Who  honor  to  our  cause  imparts 

Is  still  our  color-bearer. 

The  soldier  then  is  comrade  still, 

Around  him  fondly  cluster 
Such  greetings  of  our  right  good  will, 

To  this  our  general  muster. 

The  serried  years  of  time's  recruit, 

Since  camping  out  together, 
Have  put  the  enemy  to  rout  ; 

We  now  are  one  forever ; 


212  DRIFTWOOD. 

Have  furrowed  lines  on  many  a  brow, 
And  many  locks  have  whitened  ; 

Age  many  a  form  has  made  to  bow, 
And  death  our  ranks  has  lightened. 

Still  memory  holds  a  full  canteen, 
Though  comrades  are  divided 

As  wide  as  oceans  are  between  ; 
Our  kinship  is  decided. 

Remembrance  sees  the  curling  smoke 
Where  lingering  camp  fires  smolder, 

Repeats  the  song  and  merry  joke  ; 
The  hymn  book  of  the  soldier 

Brings  from  its  well-planned  hiding-place 
(Would  you  suspect  ?)  a  hard  tack, 

With  all  a  soldier's  sinful  grace, 
His  euchre  deck — a  card  pack  ! 

We've  marched  together,  hot  and  cold, 
We've  messed,  yes,  drank,  together, 

Though  oft  the  fiction  has  been  told, 
'Twas  only  when  the  weather — 


RECEPTION  TO  PAUL   VANDERVOORT.  213 

Too  much  swamp  land  had  filtered  through, 

Or  dried  up  all  the  water. 
Was  any  soldier  known  to  do 

Or  drink  what  he'd  not  <%  oughter  "  ? 

And  forage?     No,  we  never  did; 

Believe  it  not,  O  stranger, 
Unless  some  straying  chick  or  kid 

Came  in  the  way  of  danger. 

The  war  is  past,  but  yet  the  roll 

To  duty  still  is  calling, 
Each  day  some  overladened  soul 

Death's  scout  is  overhauling. 

Each  on  his  beat  must  picket  wait, 

Life's  field  knows  no  retreating, 
Till,  challenged  at  the  outer  gate, 

His  countersign  repeating, 

He  lays  life's  knapsack  down  at  last, 

Life's  charges  all  exhausted. 
Be  this  the  tribute  o'er  him  cast : 

"  His  scabbard  never  rusted." 


214  DRIFTWOOD. 

One  toast  then,  comrades,  to  our  guest, 

Be  never  welcome  grander  : 
Be  everywhere  his  mission  blest, 

God  speed  our  Grand  Commander. 
May  5,  1883. 


A  UTOGRAPH  LINES.  215 


AUTOGRAPH  LINES. 

IMPROMPTU,    TO    MARY    . 

FROM  the  cares  that  hedge  thickly  life's  troublesome  way, 
May  your  pathway  forever  be  free, 

And  cloudless  your  sky  as  o'er  midsummer's  day, 
As  your  life  bark  sails  over  its  sea. 

And  when  the  gray  twilight  of  evening  appears, 

May  its  coronet  star  to  the  night 
Bring  happy  reflections  of  good  through  the  years, 

And  guide  you  still  on  by  its  light. 

May  blessings  more  rare  than  the  treasures  of  earth 

To  the  hopes  of  the  toiler  impart, 
The  wealth  that  compensates  the  soul  for  its  worth 

Be  yours  for  your  goodness  of  heart 

FOND  DU  LAC,  Wis.,  Oct.,  1881. 


216  DRIFTWOOD. 


SAINT  MARGARET.* 

FROM  that  bright  zone  which  belts  the  space 
Where  dwell  the  angels  of  our  race, 
The  glory  of  whose  shining  bars 
Exceeds  the  radiant  light  of  stars, 
There  came  one  day,  with  noiseless  tread, 
One  who  had  joined  the  so-called  dead. 
And  o'er  each  well  accustomed  place, 
The  yearning  spirit's  eager  trace 

Swept  light  o'er  all,  and  strong  and  tender, 
He  clasped  a  maiden  fair  and  slender  ; 
Fairest  of  fair  was  her  sweet  young  face. 


*  To  Mrs.  E.  B.  Crocker  ("  Aunt  Margaret"),  who  built  a  conservatory 
for  flowers  at  the  cemetery  in  Sacramento,  that  the  poor  might  have 
flowers  free  to  scatter  above  the  dead.  Written  for  reading  at  a  floral 
festival  tendered  to  her  by  the  city  of  Sacramento,  May  6,  1885. 


SA INT  MARGARET.  217 

And  o'er  the  lily  bloom  of  health 

And  tint  of  lips,  there  came  by  stealth 

The  pallor  o'er  the  flush  of  pain, 

Till  as  the  snow  untouched  of  stain, 

Transfixed  among1  that  saintly  host, 

She  who  by  all  was  loved  the  most 

Ere  she  became  an  earthly  bride, 

Became  the  bride  of  death,  and  died. 

And  who  shall  say  but  that  spirit  lonely 
Had  need  of  the  comfort  of  this  flower  only, 

To  twine  his  own  with  her  love's  rich  wealth  ? 

And  far  away  that  tearful  train 

Crossed  mountain  and  wide  stretch  of  plain, 

That  she,  asleep,  at  last  might  lay 

In  that  loved  home  for  one  brief  day, 

And  then  forever  find  repose 

Where  Sacramento  murmuring  flows, 

And  flowers  perpetual  bloom  above 

The  casket  hallowed  by  such  love. 

Thus  loving  and  tender  they  bore  the  maiden, 
With  hearts  and  with  lids  with  tears  o'erladen, 

Fairest  of  fair,  to  her  home  again, 


218  DRIFTWOOD. 

Among  her  birds  and  books  and  flowers, 
Where  passed  her  childhood's  happy  hours, 
Where  pictured,  heavy  hung  the  walls, 
In  boudoir  and  in  spacious  halls, 
And  all  who  knew  her  tribute  paid. 
The  poor  who  loved  the  gentle  maid 
Bowed  low  their  heads  and  breathed  a  prayer 
Of  benediction  o'er  her  there, 

Beautiful  still  and  so  sweetly  sleeping, 
One  angel  more  her  love-watch  keeping, 
Radiant  and  pure  in  the  heavenly  bowers. 

Each  day  the  mother's  loving  care 
Bestrewed  the  grave  with  blossoms  rare, 
And  as  they  fell  with  fragrant  cheer, 
Her  angel  seemed  to  draw  more  near. 
And  near  the  flower-strewn  mound  one  day. 
An  humble  cortege  wound  its  way. 
One  meager  tribute  there  was  laid 
Upon  the  mound  but  newly  made. 

A  kindred  sorrow  makes  one  human. 

The  heart  of  this  noble,  loving  woman 
Was  moved  in  their  sweet,  sad  grief  to  share. 


SAINT  MA  KG  ARE  T.  219 

She  saw  them  bowed  with  griefs  regret. 

"  What  boon  can  make  despair  forget  ?  " 

She  asked.      ' '  To  this  bright  home  of  ours, 

For  these  a  transport  build  of  flowers," 

Whispered  a  voice  she  loved  so  well. 

A  pure  white  lily  downward  fell, 

And  lay  a-tremble  at  her  feet, 

And  tinged  the  air  with  odors  sweet. 

The  poor  pray  heaven,  "  All  good  defend  her, 
May  always  the  angels  of  light  attend  her." 

The  angels  call  her  Saint  Margaret. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  May,  1885. 


220  DRIFTWOOD. 


AUTOGRAPH. 

ALBUM,  MASTER  LEE  STEELE. 

SOME  think,  to  be  happy  and  blithe  and  gay, 
And  to  never  know  care  or  sorrow, 

You  never  should  try  to  do  to-day 
What  you  can  put  off  till  to-morrow. 

But  for  happy-go-lucky  (but,  pray,  don't  tell) 

1  would  rather  do  nothing  at  all ; 
Still  if  one  must  do,  why,  to  do  that  well 

And  at  once  pays  the  best  for  us  all. 

But  the  surest  way  out  of  life's  troubles  and  pains, 

If  to-morrow  we  wish  to  be  jolly, 
And  if  in  the  end  we  would  treasure  some  gains, 

Is  to-day  to  keep  clear  of  its  folly. 

MERCED,  CAL.,  March,  1885. 


THE  OLD  AND   THE  NEW.  221 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW. 

As  dark  as  the  shore-hidden  lake  of  Avernus, 

When  storm-crouching  clouds  run  the  billows  before, 
While  a  spectre  leads  onward  wherever  we  turn  us, 

Where,  forever  recoiling,  the  voice  of  the  thunder 
Makes  moan  till  the  caverns  seem  riven  asunder, 
Recur  to  my  thought  the  strange  visions  of  old, 
And  the  rhythm  of  the  story  tht,  sages  have  told 
Wails  out  like  a  sob  on  the  night  evermore. 

And  backward  we  glance  through  the  shadows  that  thicken 
With  the  smoke  and  the  flame  and  the  hurrying  horde  ; 
Where  the  carnage  appalls  on  our  souls  till  they  sicken, 
And  pillage  leads  onward  its  spoils  to  the  slaughter, 
And  breast  of  the  babe  and  the  virginal  daughter 
Are  bared  to  debauch  ;  and  the  bosoms  of  snow 
Lie  trampled  and  torn,  and  the  ebb  and  the  flow 
Of  the  tide  of  the  years  in  the  tumult  are  heard. 


222  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  the  winds  from  afar  bring  the  sickening  savor 

From  battlefields  damp  with  the  mould  of  the  slain, 
Who  fell  in  despair  o'er  a  hopeless  endeavor, 

Who  died  for  a  creed  or  a  sacred  tradition. 
And  the   rivers  run  red  where  a  strange  supersti 
tion 

Appeases  its  god  with  the  dimple  and  smile 
Of  the  prattler.     While  yonder  the  funeral  pile 
Dyes  crimson  the  sky  o'er  the  orient  plain. 

And  red  are  the  jaws  of  the  tigers  that,  restless, 

Gnash  sharp  on  the  bars  that  confine  in  their  prison  ; 
And  the  whelps  they  have  suckled  are  fattened  and  zest- 
less, 

And  sniff  the  keen  scent  of  the  victims  advancing. 
The  headsman's  keen  sword  from  its  scabbard  is 

glancing, 

And  the  shield  of  a  Pilate  is  shimmering  bright, 
And  a  halo  of  stars  breaks  the  seal  of  the  night, 
Wrhere  a  crucified  Christ  is  o'er  Calvary  risen. 

And  down  through  the  ages,  when  prophet  or  priestess 

Has  lifted  the  veil  from  the  terrible  night, 
Consigned  to  their  doom-haunted  prisons,  releaseless, 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW.  223 

Have  died  by  the  hemlock,  the  stake,  and  the  gib 
bet ; 

And   the   scourge   of   the  bigot  has    rendered    its 
tribute, 

Till  heaven  looking  down  through  its  numberless 
stars, 

Receding  appears,  and  its  crystalline  bars 
Seem  draped  with  the  weeds  of  despair  and  of  blight. 

An  empire  of  woe,  and  a  doom  of  despairing, 

With   Death,    the    grim    despot,   crowned    monarch 

alone. 
To  destroy  and  destroy,  with  no  hopeful  repairing, 

For  the  hope-slayer  builds  never   transport  from 

sorrow, 

Illumines  no  tomb  with  a  happier  morrow, 
But  in  living,  to  perish,  in  death  after  death, 
With    the    rolling    and   seething    and   sulphurous 

breath 
Of  Inferno,  while  Pluto  exults  on  his  throne. 

With  weeping  is  fretted  the  heart  of  the  human, 

The  tears  that  undo  not  the  fetters  of  wrong. 

What  profit  the  anguish  and  travail  of  woman, 


224  DRIFTWOOD. 

When  the  sons  she  has  borne  and  her  bosom  has 

nurtured 

Are  sold  like  the  beast,  and  are  driven   and  tor 
tured, 

Pursued  through  the   cypress,  and  mourn  and  en 
treat 

To  the  night,  while  close  at  the  fugitives'  feet 
The  bay  of  the  bloodhound  sounds  dismal  and  long? 

Thus  backward  in  shadow  my  sad  soul,  reviewing, 

Wove  dark  in  the  background  the  woof  of  the  old, 
With  naught  but  the  sorrowful  measure  construing, 

And   all    discontent   that   my   thought   could   en 
gender  ; 
And   naught   in    the  present   seemed  blissful  and 

tender. 
Then    the  plume    of  a    sceptre    my    vision    o'er- 

drew  ; 

An  angel  rebuked  me,    "See,  here  is  the  new  !  " 
And  traced  on  the  meshes  in  letters  of  gold. 

And  where  perished  the  prestige  of  leader  or  nation, 
There  uprose,  like  a  phoenix,  illumined  and  white, 
Transfigured  in  death,  into  life's  consummation. 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW.  225 

And  they  who  have  patiently  suffered  their  losses, 
Have  dared  to  be  right,  still  enduring  their  crosses  ; 
And  they  who  for  love  of  their  fellows  have  died, 
Who  with  right  on  their  shields  have  all  error  de 
fied, 
As  the  stars,  shine  forever  as  guides  of  the  night. 

Till  upborne  and  upborne  on  the  purple  of  morning, 
With  shafts  of  gray  splendor  is  illumined  the  day, 
And  the  wrecks  of  the  ages  in  glory  adorning ; 

Till  in  peans  of  gladness  all  nature  is  voicing, 
And  the  wail  of  the  weeper  is  lost  in  rejoicing, 
And  the  mother  croons  low  to  the  babe  on  her 

breast, 

"The angels  will  guard  thee  in  peace  to  thy  rest. 
Sleep,  little  one,  sleep  ;  you  are  brooded  alway. " 

For  placid  and  blue  is  the  ocean  eternal, 

Where  an  island  of  souls  lies  forever  and  fair, 
Where  the  palm    trees  of  hope   blossom    deathless  and 

vernal, 

Where  the  sands  of  the  ages  in  bright  heaps  are 
drifted, 

And  the  domes  of  the  city  immortal  are  lifted, 
'5 


226  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  white  ships  lift  anchor,  and  pass  and  repass, 
Trail  silent  their  sails  o'er  its  bosom  of  glass, 
And  the  mariner  knows  never  tempest  or  care. 

And  ever  and  aye,  when  our  hearts  are  aweary 
With  sorrows  too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear, 
And  the  desert  of  life  becomes  arid  and  dreary, 

When  our  hearts  have  grown  bitter  with  constantly 

breaking, 

Lo  !  our  angels  return  with  love's  sweet  undertak 
ing  ; 

And  soft  as  the  falling  of  snow  upon  snows, 
As  the  wing  of  the  bee  o'er  the  heart  of  the  rose, 
Is  the  tread  of  their  feet  on  life's  love-lighted  stair 

And  we  know  that,  whatever  life's  withering  sorrow, 

The  good  shall  survive,  that  our  dead  live  again  ! 
O'er  the  darkest  of  nights  wakes  a  happier  morrow, 

And  the  wrongs  of  the  old  in   the  new  shall  be 

righted, 

And  might  with  the  right  shall  be  justly  united. 
The  world  shall  have  learned  it  is  better  to  give  ; 
Through  cycles  eternal  the  spirit  shall  live  ; 
And  forever  the  angels  are  walking  with  men. 
SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL.,  March,  1885. 


LOVE  NEVER  SLEEPS. 


227 


LOVE  NEVER  SLEEPS. 

BELOVED,  wheresoe'er  thou  art, 

In  devious  paths  or  distant  lands, 
The  sacred  angel  of  my  heart 

With  folded  wing  beside  you  stands. 
When  early  o'er  the  eastern  hills 

The  gray  sweet  morning  softly  creeps, 
And  bird  songs  break  in  joyous  thrills, 

Her  shrine  is  yours.     Love  never  sleeps. 

When  happy  thou,  her  radiant  smile 

Flings  o'er  me  joy  and  hallowed  peace  ; 
If  sad  she  finds  your  mood  erewhile, 

My  grief  moans  on  without  surcease. 
If  high  meridian  marks  the  noon, 

When  cares  distract,  and  turmoil  sweeps 
Down  life's  broad  aisle,  be  this  her  boon, — 

To  bless  unseen.     Love  never  sleeps. 


228  DRIFTWOOD. 

When  purpling  lie  the  western  skies, 

In  orient  gold  and  crimson-tipped 
In  sunset's  glory-tinted  dyes, 

While  young  night's  scarf  is  passion-dipped, 
As,  homeward,  clover-cropping  kine 

Seek  covert,  and  contentment  keeps 
In  their  corrals,  so  I  to  mine 

To  pray  for  thee.     Love  never  sleeps. 

When  brooding  shadows  dark  o'ercast, 

In  midnight  fretted  o'er  with  stars, 
Waking,  or  dreaming  o'er  the  past, 

Or  future  with  its  happier  bars, 
From  early  morn  to  set  of  sun, 

Till  midnight's  dew  distills  and  weeps, 
Till  life  through  death  submerged  is  won, 

Though  dying,  still  Love  never  sleeps. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL.,  July,  1884. 


CONTENTMENT. 


229, 


CONTENTMENT. 

You  may  talk  of  the  rolling  prairie, 
With  its  billowy  masses  of  green, 

When  a  breeze  o'er  its  surface  is  playing-, 
It  charms  the  beholder,  I  ween. 

You  may  sigh  for  a  tropical  Eden, 
With  its  fragrant  acacia  and  lime, 

The  shade  of  the  orange  and  lemon, 
All  the  sweets  of  a  sunnier  clime. 

You  may  list  to  the  swell  of  the  organ, 
As  its  thundering  echoes  prolong, 

I  have  music  that's  sweeter  and  dearer 
Than  the  burthen  of  organ  or  song. 

You  may  long  for  the  wealth  of  the  Indies, 

May  sigh  for  a  casket  of  gold, 
But  mine  is  a  treasure  more  precious, 
Than  all  your  vain  riches  tenfold. 


230  DRIFTWOOD. 

My  home  is  a  cot  on  the  hillside, 

That  slopes  to  the  lake-beaten  shore, 

And  the  races  of  snowy-winged  vessels 

I  can  watch  from  my  own  cottage  door. 

Not  mine  are  the  palm  and  the  plane  tree, 
But  mine  are  the  maple  and  ash, 

And  they  mingle  their  boughs  on  the  hillside, 
O'er  the  margin  where  blue  waters  dash. 

And  mine  is  the  music  of  voices, 
Sweet  little  boy  voices — two, 

With  their  four  little  roseate  dimples, 
Four  bright  eyes  of  violet  blue. 

And  mine — shall  I  mention  my  treasure? — 
Ah  !  yes,  for  it  truly  is  mine, 

And  it  fills  me  with  infinite  pleasure 
In  devotion  to  bow  at  its  shrine. 

For  I  know  that  beneath  the  wide  heavens, 
There  warms  at  the  call  of  my  name, 

A  joy  in  the  heart  of  another — 

Oh,  Love  is  the  treasure  I  claim. 

CLIFTON,  Wis.,  June,  1860. 
Calumet  Republican. 


TO  WINNEBAGO  LAKE.  331 


TO  WINNEBAGO  LAKE. 

'Tis  pleasant  to  glide  o'er  thy  clear  crystal  bosom, 
As  Phoebus  ascends  o'er  yon  towering-  cliff, 

While  pearls  trickle  down  from  our  swift-plying  paddles, 
And  dancing  waves  kiss  the  smooth  bow  of  our  skiff. 

How  fragrant  the  breeze  through  the  cottonwoods  coming  ! 

How  sweet  thy  soft  cadence,  ye  murmuring  rills  ! 
How  plaintive  the  echo,  thou  warbling  minstrel, 

Of  each  dying  note  which  thy  feathered  throat  trills  ! 

Oh,  dear  are  thy  waters,  my  loved  Winnebago, 

And  dear  are  thy  banks  where  the  night  zephyrs  play  ; 

There  first  bloom  the  flowers  that  bid  welcome  the  spring 
time, 
And  there  the  red  oriole  tunes  his  first  lay. 

And  down  to  thy  sand-sprinkled  shore  after  school  hours, 
Come  little  bare  feet,  tripping  light  on  the  spray, 

And  soft  dimpled  fingers,  building  castles  of  pebbles, 
Beguile  the  bright  hours  in  their  innocent  play. 


232  DRIFTWOOD. 

And  sweet  modest  maidens,  all  radiant  with  blushes, 
Find  shady  retreat  by  thy  whispering  wave, 

And  twine  in  a  circlet  the  wild  forest  blossoms, 

While,    "  wanton,  thy  waters  their  snowy  feet  lave." 

Oh,  had  I  the  fire  of  a  poet  to  number 

The  praise  which  is  due  thee,  in  eloquent  song, 

And  tune  to  the  winds  that  sweep  over  thy  surface, 
Bearing  thy  white  crested  wavelets  along, 

Or  paint  the  rich  splendor  of  crimson  and  azure, 

Which  heightens  thy  charm  as  the  day  sinks  to  rest, 

Or  when  Luna  appears  as  the  dim  twilight  deepens, 
To  mirror  her  face  on  thy  beautiful  breast  ! 

Let  me  sleep  by  thy  soft  swelling  waves,  Winnebago, 
When  these  limbs  find  repose  in  the  slumber  of  death, 

Where   the  whip-poor-will's  song  breaks    the   silence  of 

evening, 
And  the  summer  winds  woo  the  wild  violet's  breath. 

CLIFTON,  Wis.,  Sept.  1860. 
Calumet  Republican, 


TWO  SIDES. 


TWO  SIDES.  „ 

A  KNIGHT  in  armor  from  the  east, 
Proudly  bestrode  his  noble  beast, 
Attendant  at  a  royal  feast. 

High  o'er  the  arch  that  spanned  the  way, 
Which  caught  the  sun's  reflecting  ray, 
A  glittering  shield  was  hung  that  clay. 

Another  rider  from  the  west, 
Also  in  knightly  armor  dressed, 
Approached,  and  guest  saluted  guest. 

Up  spoke  the  first  with  gesture  bold : 
"  Sir  Knight,  God  speed  you,  and  behold 
How  beautiful  this  shield  of  gold  !  " 

"  Ah,  beautiful  !  but  you  mistake  ; 
The  shield  is  of  another  make  : 
Tis  silver,  I  my  life  would  stake." 


234  DRIFTWOOD. 

"  Indeed,  Sir  Knight,  you  do  but  jest, 
Tis  plain  my  eyes  do  serve  me  best ; 
Tis  gold,  and  there  we'll  let  it  rest." 

"  Not  so,"  the  other  hot  replied. 
"  You  do  my  vision  so  deride, 
Your  words  imply  that  I  have  lied." 

And  so  each  sentence  drew  more  tire, 
Nor  would  they  either  one  retire 
Till  they  had  spent  their  deadly  ire. 

And  so  it  came  about  by  chance, 
Each  on  his  neighbor  drew  his  lance, 
Nor  recked  the  direful  circumstance. 

About  that  shield  they  slashed  and  swore, 
Till,  fainting,  they  could  do  no  more 
Than  welter  in  each  other's  gore. 

A  runner  from  the  castle's  gate 
Cried,  "  Out  upon  such  sorry  state  ! 
Indeed,  you'll  make  the  dinner  late. 

"  Excuse  my  breach  of  courtly  rules, 
But  when,  good  sirs,  your  anger  cools, 
You'll  both  admit  vou  were  two  fools. 


TWO  SIDES.  235 

"  You  could  have  spared  this  dire  disgrace, 
Had  you  but  changed  each  one  his  place, 
And  met  your  host  in  better  grace. 

"  Again,  if  I  may  be  so  bold, 

That  both  were  right  each  could  have  told ; 

That  side  is  silver,  this  is  gold." 

MORAL. 

'Tis  ill-advised  hot  words  to  waste, 
The  proof  of  right  to  clog  with  haste, 
For  truth  at  times  may  be  displaced. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  Nov.  30,  1892. 


2*6  DRIFTWOOD. 


MY  HEART  WOULD  HAVE  ME  LOVE  YOU. 

MY  heart  would  have  me  love  you,  dear, 
So  warm  its  tender  beating  still  must  be. 

Humid  my  lids  with  the  unbidden  tear 

Compassion  weeps,  to  veil  your  thoughts  from  me. 

You  stand  confessed  before  my  soul's  swift  eyes, 
Yet  make  me  weak  excuses  for  your  sin, 

A  plunderer  of  womanhood's  dear  prize, 
And  hedge  your  weaknesses  her  own  within. 

So  long  your  feet  have  wandered  from  the  right 

You  have  forgot  the  ecstasy  of  love, 
That  hallowed  flame  whose  soul-illumined  light 

Alone  doth  burn  on  matehood's  shrine  above. 

Than  other  men  you  are  no  worse,  perhaps ; 

You  should  be  better,  with  your  sense  of  wrong  ; 
You  know,  the  downward  pits  from  virtue's  lapse 

That  wait  on  woman,  and  you  should  be  strong. 


MY  HEART  WOULD  HAVE  ME  LOVE   YOU.         237 
You  call  that  love  which  angels  count  as  lust, 

Yet  woo  your  angel  household  to  your  side ; 
Love's  sweet  companionship  you  trail  in  dust, 

While  love's  dear  recompense  is  crucified. 

I  count  him  not  as  guiltless  who  defiles 
The  virgin  birthright  and  love's  wedded  kiss, 

Who,  dallying,  speeds  the  wanton  lover's  wiles, 
Who  scorns  to  wed,  yet  robs  another's  bliss. 

And  so  your  soul,  familiar  grown  with  lust, 
Reads  women  all  as  those  whom  you  consort. 

Makes  you  insult  true  wifehood  with  distrust, 
And  all  its  sacred  ministry  distort. 

Think  not  my  words  are  spoken  to  upbraid ; 

My  lips  would  rather  kiss  away  your  stain  ; 
But  think,  dear  heart,  each  weakling  that  has  strayed 

Lays  on  some  mother's  heart  the  sword  of  pain. 

To  save  your  feet  from  treading  out  the  wine 
The  nightshade  yields  to  poison  life  by  stealth, 

Love  should  bestow  affection  deep  as  mine, 
To  win  your  angel  from  your  grosser  self. 


238  DRIFTWOOD. 

For  her  sweet  sake  whose  anguish  gave  you  life, 

I  would  a  later  pain  for  you  endure ; 
If  through  the  agony  of  love's  keen  strife 

My  heart  might  break,  that  yours  be  made  more  pure. 

Did  I  not  know  you  better  than  you  seem, 

I  might  in  sorrow  turn  my  face  away, 
But  just  above  your  passion's  turbid  stream, 

The  rainbow  spans  where  purer  waters  play. 

I  stretch  my  hands  above  you  and  implore 
Heaven's  holy  ministers  to  guide  your  feet ; 

Lift  up  your  eyes  to  where  they  walk  before, 

And  throbbing  stars  in  your  new  dawn  shall  meet. 

MELBOURNE;,  VICTORIA,  Aug.  29,  1885. 


THE   END. 


YC   14702 


11685 


